


The Mayerling Incident or the Case of the Dead Dog

by Elwa



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Animal Death, Assassins, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Mystery, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwa/pseuds/Elwa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dog is dead. Did Holmes kill him, for real this time? Or is something more sinister going on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes in any capacity. Any historical persons mentioned are not true to life as, unless I should chance upon some method of time travel, I do not know them and have only borrowed their names and a few facts as can be gleamed from Wikipedia; my account of their persons is not true (that I know of).
> 
> Also please note that this was written before the second movie came out, and now no longer fits in with either movie canon or book canon (though I can at least explain away book canon as Watson changing facts to protect clients). Which means that I originally had Watson married already...but Irene Adler around to come visiting...well, a marriage is easily fixed but I'm sure there will be other inaccuracies throughout the story that I've missed.

When Watson finally returned an hour after he left Baker Street, psychologically exhausted from dealing with an impossible hypochondriac and more than a little hungry for having been called away just before dinner, it was to Holmes lounging in his chair, pipe in mouth, while reading something that both seemed to amuse and annoy from his expression. Dinner had long since been cleared away but there was a plate of dry, somewhat stale biscuits laid out. Watson was feeling hungry enough to try one.  
  
“I wouldn’t eat those,” Holmes remarked just as he had taken one, without looking up from his reading material. Watson managed to repress a jump even though Holmes had, up to that moment and despite Watson’s called greeting when he entered the door, given every impression that he hadn’t noticed the other man’s arrival. “They’ve been there since last Wednesday.” Watson dropped the biscuit.  
  
“Why on Earth are you keeping them, then?” he asked, brushing the crumbs from his hands, “Or are you running a new experiment on the hardening properties of tea accessories?” Holmes didn’t answer right away as he made an odd tsking sound in response to what he was reading. When Watson didn’t react or attempt a closer look at his reading material, he repeated the noise, louder this time. Watson sighed and gave in. “And what are you reading that has you ‘tsking’ so loudly?”  
  
“I don’t ‘tsk’, Watson,” he answered, “But to answer your second question, I am reading an utterly sentimental, fictitious account that  _The Strand_  has dared to parade as a ‘true story’.”   
  
“Perhaps the author realized that being sworn to secrecy means a few facts need to be changed before an account can be published for all to see,” Watson suggested lightly while considering calling Mrs. Hudson to see if any of the dinner had been saved. He had half expected her to come bustling up the stairs on her on accord, fussing over his missed meal as soon as she realized he was back.  
  
“But it has you married!” Holmes cried, “Is it proper to fictitiously live with your bride for years before you’ve actually met?”  
  
“Continuity,” Watson answered amicably, resigned to Holmes tearing his work apart, “ _The Sign of Four_  had me meeting Mary… and don’t start on that, you know I couldn’t put who really met with us… so, sensibly, by this adventure I’ve been married. And it explains the months of absence from the writing world.”  
  
“Which couldn’t be explained otherwise? Not to mention the prince visited us three years ago. You even put the date.”  
  
“So I did,” Watson agreed, eyes turning once again to the plate of biscuits and rather wishing that, for once, Holmes could play proper host and not make him go himself to ask for food. Holmes in general continued to act as though Watson were a roommate who had the curious habit of visiting his fiance from time to time before returning home. It probably didn’t help Holmes’s psychosis that Watson was, in fact, currently staying there, because Mary had gone with the family she still played governess to for a month long holiday.   
  
Holmes made another tsking noise but didn’t speak until Watson said, “I thought you had given up on reading my stories. You said you had no intention to start it when it first came out a month ago.”  
  
“‘The Woman’ seemed to think I should take a peek.”  
  
“Ah,” Watson answered, having wondered when that part of the fiction would come up, until what Holmes implied hit him properly. “She’s been here? When?!”  
  
“Ostensibly when you were not,” Holmes answered calmly from around his pipe, and then, apropos of nowhere, he added, “And to answer your first question, our dog seems particularly appreciative of them.” And so saying he took one of the ancient biscuits from the tray and tossed it to the floor in the general direction of Gladstone’s pillow. Whatever comment Watson might have made about dog nutrition was swallowed by a noise on the stairs.  
  
“That will be Mrs. Hudson with your dinner, no doubt,” Holmes deduced.  
  
“No doubt,” Watson answered dryly; it was hardly one of Holmes’s more impressive deductions. Holmes seemed to recognize Watson’s less than impressed attitude because before Mrs. Hudson could make her appearance he continued.  
  
“She will be annoyed because someone has been at your dinner already and she had to fix up some sandwiches fresh. I hope she included her normal exuberance; the soup earlier was particularly unappetizing.”  
  
“You can’t deduce the number?” Watson asked, eyebrow raised and earning a scowl from his companion, just as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson did, indeed, come in bearing a tray of sandwiches.   
  
“Here you go, Doctor,” she announced, setting the tray at the table, “I had saved some of the soup to be heated, but it’s gone now. No doubt someone snuck in to finish it off. Even if some people are in need of polishing their plate more often, it would be kind to let people know when you’ve finished it all.”  
  
“I can assure you, I did nothing of the kind,” Holmes responded. To Watson’s relief, he made no comment about the taste of the soup to Mrs. Hudson though he did add, “If I were you, I’d run a search closer to the kitchen. One of your maids is in the habit of seeing that no food goes to waste.” Mrs. Hudson merely gave him a look before checking over Watson to see that he was settled. There were, in fact, more than enough sandwiches. Despite his earlier words, however, Holmes made no move to grab one and in fact moved his paper so that they were hidden from his sight. It was as she was leaving that Mrs. Hudson noticed the biscuit on the floor.  
  
"Well really!" she cried, scooping it up, "Someone could step on it...crumbs everywhere..."  Holmes studiously studied his paper.  Watson, his mouth full from a sandwich, attempted nonetheless to make consolatory and apologetic noises.  Finally she left, biscuit in tow and still in a bad temper, and Holmes finally lowered the paper with a slightly thoughtful expression.  
  
“It is unlike Gladstone to refuse offerings,” he remarked, “Perhaps he is sick.”  
  
“Or perhaps the biscuits are too hard even for his taste,” Watson suggested, but he did turn, slightly concerned, before going over to where the dog lay on his pillow. Holmes turned decidedly away from the sandwiches, eyes back on Watson’s story, though he said, “Is he sick, then?”  
  
“No,” Watson answered slowly from his position kneeling next to the dog, “He isn’t sick. He’s dead.”  
  
“Dead?” Holmes asked, looking up at last.  
  
“Yes, dead,” Watson answered, still kneeling, though he had taken out his stethoscope to be absolutely certain.  
  
“Dead, dead? Are you sure?” Holmes demanded, finally putting the paper down.  
  
“Completely dead,” he answered, “Unless you know something I don’t. Have you been experimenting again?”  
  
“You have been wrong about these things before,” Holmes suggested, completely ignoring his accusations, “Perhaps he is just pretending.”  
  
“The dog is dead, Holmes,” Watson answered, staring back at his friend and his slightly bewildered expression. That expression, more than anything, told Watson this wasn’t another of Holmes’s experiments.  
  
“Watson, this makes no sense. He was perfectly fine not even an hour ago.” The bewildered expression deepened into a frown. “Watson, you have left me with a defective animal.”  
  
Watson sighed, giving Gladstone one final pat of regret, before rising and limping back to his seat. “He wasn’t defective, Holmes.”  
  
“Of course he was. Normal dogs do not expire on their pillows when half an hour before they were trotting around, happily consuming dry biscuits.”  
  
“No, I suppose they don’t. Did you give him anything recently?”  
  
“I didn’t poison the dog, Watson. He decided to die all on his own. Unless…do you think he might have been poisoned?”  
  
“I do not think someone broke into your rooms, killed the dog, and quietly left again, no.”  
  
“Hmm…it does seem unlikely. Perhaps it was a slow acting poison, and they got him when he was on his walk.”  
  
“There isn’t a great mystery here. Sometimes animals just die. Normal people grieve and move on, buy a new pet.”  
  
“Nonsense! I am not upset by it, merely alarmed that some fiend has murdered a helpless animal.”  
  
“And you’re sure you haven’t given him anything recently?”  
  
“Nothing harmful.”   
  
Whatever Watson might have said to that was interrupted by the door being thrown open. A maid stood in the doorway, a look of great distress upon her face.  
  
“Doctor! You must come! It’s Maggie, I think she’s dying!” Watson followed swiftly, only taking the time to grab his bag. Holmes stayed behind, alone with a plate of mostly untouched sandwiches and a dead dog.


	2. Chapter 2

If Watson feared that this would be another case of hyper imaginations coupled with a minor cold, that fear was soon laid to rest.  The maid was lying insensible on the ground, Mrs. Hudson hovering fearfully over her.  Watson took note of the maiden’s blue lips, lack of general movement, and the way one hand had been holding tightly to her stomach before she had relaxed into unconsciousness while his mind swiftly ran through possible scenarios so he could deduce what he might need.  The maid at his side was babbling shrilly on about how Maggie threw up and then just collapsed.

“Do you need anything, doctor?” Mrs. Hudson asked from her position on the floor where she uselessly swiped at the maid’s brow.

“Perhaps some boiled water,” he answered but directing his response towards the woman clinging hysterically to his side. 

“Water, yes, water!” she cried and ran out of the room.  With that distraction gone, Watson motioned Mrs. Hudson back and crouched down himself by the stricken maid.  He grabbed her wrist to check her heart rate, frowned, and moved to her neck.  Finally, he pulled out his stethoscope, listening carefully while noting her breathing which came in short, erratic bursts.

“What do you suppose it is?” Mrs. Hudson demanded.

“Her pulse is weak, so as to be imperceptible,” Watson murmured out loud while he moved to his bag to prepare a shot.  He administered the stimulant quickly, and checked her heart rate again while continuing his observations.  “Eyes dilated…skin pale and cool, wet…you say she was sick?”

“She made a horrible mess in the kitchen before stumbling out here,” Mrs. Hudson answered.

“Do you know if she’s prone to syncoptic episodes?” the doctor asked, frowning over the heart rate.

“To what?”

“Fainting spells,” Watson clarified briefly, “Dizziness.”

“Not that I know of, and she’s been here a year,” Mrs. Hudson answered.

“It seems to be a matter of the heart,” he mumbled to himself before addressing Mrs. Hudson again.  “Did she complain of anything at all?  She seems to be clutching her stomach.”

“I wouldn’t know; the first I heard of it was hearing her be sick in the kitchen.  She didn’t come to me to complain.”

“What has she eaten today?”

“Just what we all have, I’d imagine.  And none of the rest of us are sick.”

“Except poor Gladstone,” Watson murmured to himself, still frowning over the poor maid’s pulse.  He felt it, briefly, for a moment, far too lethargic, and then gone again. 

“Perhaps we should call in a specialist; she may need more help than I can give her,” Watson suggested.

“Should we get her to the hospital?” Mrs. Hudson asked, wringing her hands impotently.  Watson was about to answer when he noted a change had come over his patient.

The breathing had stopped.

“No.”  The sound was wrenched from his lips involuntarily as he struck her chest to encourage the circulation of air.  He felt once more for a pulse, and then checked for breathing, but still found none.  He continued his attempts at revival for another couple of minutes, even after he could see it was going to be no use.  Finally he stopped, closing his eyes briefly against an exhaustion of the soul.  She was dead.

“Doctor?”  Mrs. Hudson hovered uncertainly and finally he looked up to face her.

“I’m sorry.  There’s nothing more I can do.” 

“Doctor?” she repeated, though the look in her eyes said she already understood what he meant.

“She’s dead.”

A cry in the doorway alerted them to the other maid’s return, followed by the loud clamor of a pot striking the floor and then a shriek as boiling hot water spilled out over people’s feet.  Thankfully, they were wearing shoes, and the only one to get sloshed on their bare skin was the one who no longer had the ability to feel pain.  Watson stumbled to help the hysterical girl nonetheless, asking if she was hurt and ignoring the pain in his own leg that had less to do with burns and more to do with prolonging kneeling on the floor.

“Oh, she’s dead, she’s dead!” the girl cried hysterically, until Mrs. Hudson slapped her across the face and dragged her back into the kitchen.  Watson followed more slowly, trying to insist that slapping the poor girl wasn’t really necessary and that perhaps a drink was in order.  The smell of vomit was strong in the room though it looked like someone had already made a brief effort at cleaning.  If Holmes were in there he’d probably be complaining about tampering with evidence before citing everything the girl had eaten based on smell alone.

Thinking of Holmes, Watson suddenly wondered where he was.  The man may not care to intrude on a medical matter and generally found hysterical girls repellent, but cries of ‘she’s dead’ would normally attract him.

“Oh, what a horrid business,” Mrs. Hudson continued to lament, “She was young to drop dead like that.  You don’t think it was something she ate, do you?  We could all be poisoned!”

“She did like to eat, did Maggie,” the hysterical maid managed to say between hiccupped sobs, “She always said she hated good food to go to waste, and that Mr. Holmes and his moods!  She was getting quite plump before you got that dog.”

“There now, I’m sure it wasn’t the food…” Watson started to say consolingly when something of what the maid had said sent a frisson of unease through his heart.  It was a ridiculous notion, he knew, the girl probably simply had a weak heart, a defect of some kind or other…but the dog dead, the girl dead…

“Tell me, Mrs. Hudson, that soup you made for dinner…did you eat any of it?”

“Actually, come to think of it, I had my dinner out with some friends of mine; that’s why I prepared a soup, you see, of all the leftovers…oh you don’t think it was the soup?  But no one else has gotten sick!”

“She didn’t eat it!” the other maid insisted shrilly, “Neither of us did!  We had a bit of a birthday celebration…it’s mine today, you see…and so we prepared something separate while you were out!  She couldn’t have eaten it!”

“Calm yourself and tell me this clearly,” Watson insisted, something cold growing in his heart at every word, “The only one actually brought the soup was Holmes.”

“I suppose,” she answered, still hiccupping and her face all blotchy.  So only he and Holmes would have eaten it.  But he was called away, his portion taken so that anyone could have come upon it including young maids who didn’t like food going to waste…and now she was dead and the dog was dead…Holmes said he didn’t eat his portion but the dog is dead…and Holmes said…he said he didn’t like the taste…he knew the taste so he had eaten some of it before…

“Oh God!”

Leaving the two women speechless in the kitchen he turned swiftly and charged up the stairs.  He half flew, limp and all, into the sitting room where he almost expected to find Holmes insensible on the floor.  He wasn’t there.  Relieved to not find Holmes dying on the floor, Watson still couldn’t shake the feeling of deep unease as he searched through their rooms.  When he finally found him it was to see him kneeling before the toilet with his head bowed over it.  Holmes looked up when he heard the doctor approach.

“Watson,” he said, giving him the same bewildered, lost look he had gotten over the dead dog, “It seems I am not quite well.”  Watson took in his pale face, the eyes dilated black, and found that he didn’t feel quite well himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Whatever his malady was, Holmes’s observational skills were as sharp as ever.  He looked over his friend’s face with a keen sharpness while letting his wrist be taken in the other’s hand.

“I take it she died, then?” he said and gave a brief laugh that had nothing to do with humor while Watson frowned over his racing pulse.  “It looks like you were right after all; I did kill our dog.”

“Nonsense,” Watson murmured, “You were right as much as I, more so, even.”  Holmes didn’t have a fever to speak of though his skin wasn’t as cool as Maggie’s had been.  Of course, her heart had been too slow, not too fast.

“But wrong in their target.  I should have realized…”  Whatever he should have realized was interrupted by him turning away again to empty his stomach.  Behind them, Mrs. Hudson gave a cry of alarm.

“Not Mr. Holmes as well!  What should I do, Doctor?”

“My bag, quickly,” Watson answered; in his haste to run to his friend he had left it downstairs.  “And send a message out to Dr. Reid.”  Swiftly, Watson grabbed a spare piece of paper and jotted down the relevant information. “Tell him it’s quite urgent.”  As Mrs. Hudson turned to do as he asked, still wringing her hands in distress, he thought to call out, “Oh, and you better send for Lestrade as well.”

“Watson,” Holmes groaned, his head still over the toilet, “Must we?”

“This was a crime,” Watson answered, his voice low but powerful with restrained worry and anger, “A girl is already dead.  And you’re in no shape to…to…investigate.”  It seemed he was in no shape to argue either, because after a moment’s thought he merely nodded in resignation.  Watson leaned over him, one hand still clutching his wrist, to inspect the contents of the toilet in the hope that there would be some clue as to what had made him sick.  He saw nothing discernable though; no partially digested bits of leaf or mushroom that might give the poison away.  Then the maid appeared with his bag, her face red from her earlier hysteria though her hiccups seemed to have stopped.

“Mrs. Hudson’s gone herself with your note,” she told him.

“Yes, thank you,” he answered her distractedly while his mind frantically considered what might be causing this and what he should do about it. 

“Is there anything you need me to do?”  Watson considered this.

“Salt water,” he suggested before turning back to his charge, “In a glass.”  Holmes had turned away from the toilet and was leaning against its side, a strange look in his dark eyes.  He was staring over Watson’s shoulder at the retreating maid, a puzzling expression on his face.  Then he blinked and turned back to him.

“Come on, old boy, let’s get you to bed,” Watson said, getting stiffly to his feet and offering his arm to help him up.  Holmes stared at the arm.

“Are you sure?  I’m afraid I might make a mess.”

“I’ll bring you a basin.  Besides, I want you to make a mess.  I want you to throw up as much as you can, Holmes, you need to try to bring it all up.”

While Holmes considered this, Watson gave up on offering the hand and knelt to grab him under his arm, finally hauling him to his feet.  Holmes was a bit unsteady, whether from the mystery malady or from having sat in an awkward position for so long wasn’t clear until they started walking.  It swiftly became apparent that he was having difficulty with walking in a straight line, and the short walk to his bed left him breathless, his face white.  They had only just reached it when he suddenly grasped at his friends arm tightly.  Before Watson could ask what was wrong, he slumped forward in a dead faint.

“Holmes?  Holmes!” Watson cried, struggling to keep him from sliding right onto the floor.  Luckily, with the direction he fell, the doctor was able to guide him onto the bed.  Maneuvering him into lying on it was a bit more work, not to mention slightly alarming as Holmes remained insentient throughout.  He finally managed and took his pulse once more.  It was no longer racing; in fact it was a bit on the slow side.  The doctor took a moment to close his eyes in a silent prayer, squeezing Holmes’s hand tightly.  Then he leaned over him, trying to rouse him.  To his relief, he began to stir.

“Come on, old chap, look at me now.”

“Watson?”  His voice sounded breathless and confused as he searched his friend out.

“I need you to tell me your symptoms,” Watson said, trying to keep his voice clinical to hide the intense fear racing through his heart, “Have you any pain?  Stomach cramps, or the like?”

“No,” he answered, considering his own condition with the same intensity he usually reserved for crime scenes, “I don’t think it’s arsenic…the soup was bitter.  There is…there is a clue here somewhere…Watson, why does this not make sense?”

“You are ill, old boy.  This is my domain, your job now is to rest and do as I say.”  Holmes said nothing to that, remaining uncharacteristically passive as Watson took his temperature and cast his eyes about for a basin.  He found one on the floor filled with water, which he dumped out the window before handing it to Holmes.  Holmes stared at it incomprehensibly as Watson guided him to sit propped up against his pillows.

“Why do I have Gladstone’s bowl?”

“I told you, I need you to purge your stomach.”  Holmes gave Watson a look of disbelief and disgust.  The doctor returned it with a stern, unyielding look.

“It’s that or the stomach pump.  How much of the soup did you eat?”

“Don’t know…Watson, I feel strange…”

“Come on, old chap, stay with me, think!  How much was it?  A bite?  Two?”

“More…I…I think I was angry…I did not want to eat without you…but Nanny was in the room and I didn’t want…lecture…fed Gladstone after she went out…friend…Watson, I killed the dog.”  He was mumbling through most of it, revealing more than he normally would if he weren’t so out of it, but the last statement was a plaintive wail and he looked beseechingly to Watson as though asking him to fix it.

“You didn’t kill the dog,” Watson answered, before turning away to look out the door.  “Where is that girl with the saltwater?”

“She’s from Austria,” Holmes answered, apropos of nowhere.

“Her family’s from Germany, actually, as you’d know if you ever bothered talking with people.”  He moved from the bed to look out the door, frowning, but then shook his head and went to his bag. He was being ridiculous awaiting household remedies when he had a bag full of medicine.  He should have told her to make coffee instead.  He didn’t like the sound of Holmes’s heart rate.

“Her accent is Austrian,” Holmes insisted, and then, “One third.”

“One third Austrian?”  He pulled an emetic from his bag and considered the best way to get Holmes to take it.  With that in mind, he pulled out the stomach pump as well.

“The bowl, I ate one third.” 

Watson closed his eyes briefly.  One third.  Less than half but a good deal more than he had hoped.  And they had no way of knowing how potent the poison was.  “Well then, let’s get it out of you.  I want you to swallow this.”  Holmes stared at it dubiously as Watson measured it out in a teaspoon.  “Take it, or I’ll have to pump your stomach.”  Now Holmes’s eyes slid over to the open case, the device in pieces looking as intimidating as any torture device.  He opened his mouth.  “Good boy,” Watson said, and then shoved the spoon in, forcing Holmes to literally swallow his response.  He still managed to convey his feelings with his eyes, at least for a brief second before his expression became that of disgust.  Seconds later the medicine did its work and he was heaving into the water basin.

“Come on, that’s it,” Watson said, rubbing his back gently, helping him hold the basin steady.  When he finally finished he collapsed back into the pillows and would have dropped the basin completely if Watson hadn’t been there to catch it. 

“Holmes?  Holmes, old boy, answer me!”  For one very long minute Holmes lay unresponsive, pale and clammy, but at last he opened his eyes.

“Watson, that was disgusting,” he announced, his eyes giving him a wounded look as though Watson were torturing him on purpose.

“Sorry,” Watson answered, and the look he sent back was tender and pained and helpless.  Holmes turned away from it, uncomfortable as he always was when emotions ran high.  Still with his head turned away, he said, “I’m glad you did not dine with me today.”

Watson thought about what could have happened, and couldn’t repress a shudder.  Many thoughts gathered then that he wanted to share.  That he was glad he had gone too, even if it meant another died in his place.  Because it meant Holmes might not.  That he was scared, that everything would be alright even if he couldn’t know for sure, that… if worst came to worst… the friendship…the love… they shared would transcend death itself, even as it would destroy him to be left behind.  That he promised not to leave, not for anything, if only Holmes could promise the same.  He swallowed, staring down at his friend of many years.  In the end he said none of that.  Instead, he held out the emetic.

“Once more, old chap.”  Holmes, surprisingly acquiescent, did as he was told.


	4. Chapter 4

The maid finally brought the salt water, mumbling apologies for taking so long while she stared at Holmes with wide, frightened eyes.  Watson set the water aside and impatiently sent her off to make some tea.  Holmes, despite the induced vomiting, continued to worsen.

By the time Dr. Reid finally arrived, Holmes looked desperately ill.  He was unconscious, no longer rousing when Watson shook him, face so pale it was white, except for around his eyes where he was red, and his lips which were starting to turn blue.  His pulse was slow, far too slow even after the stimulant Watson gave him, though not as slow as Maggie’s had been. 

The doctor arrived at the door almost an hour after the housekeeper had been sent out to call for him.  Mrs. Hudson had, of course, returned much sooner and had the tea making well in hand, as the remaining maid was still hysterical enough to be useless. 

Dr. Reid inspected Holmes while Watson hovered, taking note of the same symptoms and asking relative questions about the rate of deterioration.

“Do you have a theory for the cause of his illness?” Reid asked.

“I’d rather not say…I wanted your opinion first,” Watson answered.  He would say it was because of his friend’s philosophy…that he didn’t want to theorize without facts in case it warped his interpretation of the symptoms…but the truth was that he was terrified of being right.  Watson had seen a similar case once before.  He was hoping his doctor friend would give him a different opinion, something that could more easily be treated.

“My first instinct would be an as of yet unnoted heart condition,” Dr. Reid answered, “But in light of the other deaths…as we are almost certain it is a poisoning…I can think of only two other cases where a poisoning caused such symptoms.  A young woman attempting an abortion and a boy, after eating some berries of a certain plant.  Or more accurately, the seeds.”  At those words, Watson squeezed his eyes shut, his heart clinching.  He didn’t need to hear the rest to know that Dr. Reid had come to the same conclusion as himself.  Dr. Reid continued talking, nonetheless.  “Taxine poisoning.  From a yew tree.”

“And what would you recommend?” Watson managed to choke out, already knowing but still hoping for some new medical cure to have been developed sometime in the last few years without his knowledge.

“Just as you’ve been doing,” Dr. Reid answered, his voice sympathetic, “Stimulants for the heart.  Emptying the stomach as well as you can of the poison.  I’m afraid there is no antidote.  We’ll have to wait it out, and see.”  Watson nodded, eyes firmly fixed to the man lying in the bed.

Holmes roused again, briefly, just before Lestrade showed up.  His eyes took in the room, Watson, everything, with their usual sharpness, yet a look of confusion still shadowed his features.

“I am ill, Watson?” he said, searching out the doctor, “I feel quite faint.”

“You were poisoned,” Watson told him, “Don’t you remember?”

“Oh,” was all he said, still looking rather lost, and then, “Am I going to die, then?”

“No!” Watson answered, a bit too loudly causing the patient to jump in alarm.  Forcing himself to calm, Watson repeated it in a softer voice.  “No.  No, you won’t die; you didn’t have the full dose.”

“Oh,” Holmes said again, looking quietly up at him with utter trust.  Watson prayed silently that Holmes would not make a liar of him.  Then Holmes grew restless once again, his eyes sweeping the room as though searching for clues.  They fell on the recently cleaned water basin, laid nearby in case it would be needed again.  “Watson, I killed the dog!” Holmes exclaimed suddenly, struggling weakly to sit up.

“Hey, come on, old chap, lay back down,” Watson ordered, gently pushing him back and hoping the exertions didn’t send Holmes back in another faint.

“I did though,” he told Watson, sounding strangely mournful, “And you will hate me, and run away again with Mary, and I won’t even have the dog because he is dead, and I killed him.”

“You didn’t kill him; the poisoner killed him,” Watson tried to explain, but Holmes’s mind was apparently still running non-stop as it always did, if slightly less coherently, and he didn’t seem to be listening.

“And you killed the maid,” he continued to reason with impeccable logic as he stared up at Watson in complete earnestness.

“And how did I kill the maid?” Watson asked, trying to keep his tone light despite his deep worry and underlying growing rage at whatever person it was who brewed the poison and laid his friend out in such a state.

“It was your soup that she ate,” Holmes answered reasonably, “Just as it was my soup that Gladstone ate.  Watson, you must hide before the police come to arrest you, and then they will hang you and I will be all alone, and Mary will kill me.”  And it was just as Holmes reached this somewhat questionable conclusion that the police, in fact, arrived.

When Lestrade finally reached the room, not quite knowing what to expect except having been given the impression that Holmes was currently lying half in a coma on his deathbed, he came in upon a very awake Holmes attempting valiantly to make Watson hide under the bed while babbling about police and a dead girl.  Holmes was not being very successful, mostly because he appeared to be too weak to do more than clutch at Watson’s shirt, shoving at him with all the force of an unruly infant.  Finally, when it was obvious that reasoning with Holmes was useless and that this was getting him far too worked up, Watson said, “Fine, fine, I’m hiding,” before ducking down and sitting on the floor.  The sudden disappearance of his friend allowed Holmes to fall back onto his pillows, breathing heavily, his face glistening with sweat despite being as white as a sheet, looking as though he might pass out at any second.

“Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked, preferring in that moment to talk to Watson but unsure if such an attempt would set Holmes off again.  The thought made him nervous, for more than one reason.  Lestrade had seen Watson in his element as a doctor before, and he could turn quite vicious towards those who were a hindrance to his patient.

“Lestrade,” Holmes answered, eyes darting over to him, taking in his appearance, “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I’m told there has been an attempt on your life,” Lestrade answered, careful not to mention the already dead body that was at that moment being removed for an autopsy.  As Holmes’s eyes seemed to study him, Lestrade couldn’t help but return the favor.  “You look awful,” he said, feeling concerned.

“I am fine,” Holmes insisted, “The good doctor has promised I will not die.”

“Here,” said a second man, a doctor if Lestrade was any judge of people at all, as he pushed a cup towards Holmes’s lips.  But Holmes jerked away, letting what looked like water dribble down his shirt.

“You are not Watson,” he told the man, frowning petulantly, “Where is my Watson?  He was here earlier…wasn’t he?  Did he leave again?  He’s always leaving me.”

“I’m here, Holmes,” Watson said, standing up once more.  He took the cup from the other doctor’s hands.  “Doctor Reid, why don’t you go with Inspector Lestrade and fill him in, and I will replenish his fluids.”  The other doctor agreed amicably, leading Lestrade from the room.  As they walked out, they could hear Holmes’s plaintive voice saying, “But you did leave me.  You went away to be with Mary.”

“I didn’t,” Watson answered, his voice low and gentle and not meant for anyone’s ears but Holmes’s, “I left this house.  I didn’t leave you.”  Feeling slightly embarrassed to be listening in on such a private moment between old friends, Lestrade shut the door behind them.  Then he turned to Dr. Reid, hoping for an explanation as to what had lain the private consulting detective so low, but the doctor looked busy with a book, frowning over it contemplatively.

“Doctor?” Lestrade asked, and the man looked up.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” he said, “It is a delicate matter to diagnose with only the symptoms to go by, and this is such a rare poisoning that I wish to know all I can of what to expect.  The delirium is new, most likely caused by the decreased heart rate, but I still felt the need to consult my tomes.”

“And what is this poison?” Lestrade asked, “And however did they get Holmes to take it without noticing anything?”

 “Taxine poison, from a yew tree,” Dr. Reid answered promptly, “Highly poisonous.  The leaves, the roots, branches, and seeds…all can kill, though the berries themselves are harmless.  As for how it was administered, I’m told it was in the soup he had for dinner.  He didn’t eat all of it, so perhaps there is hope he didn’t have a fatal dose.  The girl downstairs was not so lucky.”

“But why would she have eaten Mr. Holmes’s soup?” Lestrade asked, confused and slightly sickened by this convoluted tale of death.

“She ate Dr. Watson’s portion, or so I was told.  I believe my colleague was called away for a medical emergency before he could eat.  The maid saw the uneaten food, and…well…as I understand it, a dog was the first indication that something was wrong.  First the dog, and then the maid…”

“But Mr. Holmes will be alright?  Dr. Watson seemed quite sure of it,” Lestrade said, looking up briefly as he jotted down notes on the case, but Dr. Reid’s expression was anything but reassuring.

“My colleague is a good doctor,” Reid said slowly, “But Mr. Holmes is his friend.  There is a reason he called me for help, and it has nothing to do with my specialty in poisonings.  Taxine poisoning is rare, but not so rare that Dr. Watson wouldn’t have heard of it, or known the proper treatment.  He needed a second opinion and helping hand because treating friends, or close family…well…doctors can make mistakes, especially when emotions get in the way.”

“You don’t think he’ll make it?” Lestrade asked, then felt a bit callous when he noted Mrs. Hudson’s pale face as she listened in on the conversation.

“I think, at this point, it could go either way,” Dr. Reid answered carefully, his words half directed towards the landlady.  The words were gentle, but practiced; Lestrade had used that same tone himself when talking to families in his role with the police.  He allowed this new information to roll over him before turning his mind to the job at hand, to discover what had happened and to search for clues as to who had done it and why.  Before he could compose himself to ask Mrs. Hudson some questions, a cry of alarm brought him and the doctor running back to the bedroom.

“Damn it, Holmes, don’t you dare do this!” Watson screamed, leaning over Holmes who was lying quite and still on the bed.  Watson turned his head up at their entry, terror filling his eyes with such emotion he was frightening to look at.  “He has no pulse.”


	5. Chapter 5

“No pulse, oh God, no pulse,” Watson continued to repeat, hand pressed roughly to Holmes’s chest as though he could force his heart to work through sheer will.

“Dr. Watson,” Dr. Reid said, attempting to gain his attention, “Dr. Watson…listen to me, Watson…John!”  Finally Watson managed to subdue his panic enough to look at the other man.  “He still breathes,” Dr. Reid pointed out, “You can see…he still lives.  His heartbeat is too slow but he is not yet dead.”

“Of course, right, of course,” Watson answered, his face nearly as pale as Holmes’s, “Of course, he needs the stimulant, he needs…where is it…”  One hand still clutching tightly to Holmes’s wrist, he searched the surrounding area and tried to calm his own heartbeat which was much too fast.

“It’s been given already,” Dr. Reid reminded him gently, “Sit down, John.  Now is not the time for medicine.  Just…be with him.”

“Right…right.”  Watson took a deep breath, his eyes not leaving the body lying still on the bed.  The others slowly backed out of the room except for the second doctor.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson whispered to Lestrade, “That is just how poor Maggie got, before she died.”  She looked in from the door for a second longer before spinning away, saying something about making tea.  Lestrade hovered in the doorway a bit longer, watching Dr. Reid attempt to take Holmes’s pulse, his eyes sliding automatically away from Watson’s painfully distraught eyes.  His duty as an inspector warred with his duty as a human being; he needed to ask questions but he did not wish to intrude.  Finally he decided his questions could wait and he went to make some observations of the crime scene where Mrs. Hudson and the second maid were preparing tea.  A couple of his men stood around, eating sandwiches.

“Good God, men, are you insane!” Lestrade exclaimed when he saw them there, “Two have been poisoned already from food in this very kitchen, and there you go eating the evidence!”  That gave them both pause, each man now staring at their half eaten sandwich with an expression of sudden dread, food still in their mouths.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson cried, her voice full of distress, “I didn’t think!  Do you think the tea is safe?”

“We’ll want to look at it, and all your food just to be safe, but especially the remains of the dinner.  Where do you have it?”

“Gone, all of it,” Mrs. Hudson answered, “Barbara and Maggie were just finishing the dishes before Maggie collapsed.  It had already been eaten.”

“Sir?  Sir…I don’t feel so good…”

“You’re fine, Anderson, now start collecting food items.”

“But sir, I really don’t…how do you know…”

“Because Wilson is fine, and you ate the same food.  Don’t worry, if you drop dead I’ll call the doctor down, but until then, keep collecting evidence!”  Shaking his head at his men’s incompetence, Lestrade led Mrs. Hudson and the maid into the other room to sit down.  The maid in particular looked very pale and just on the verge of hysterics, her hands trembling slightly.  Mrs. Hudson looked worried and distraught, but living with Sherlock Holmes had apparently steeled her nerves somewhat because she showed no signs of approaching a nervous breakdown.

“Now,” Lestrade said, addressing Mrs. Hudson, “Tell me everything that happened.”

“Oh, it was horrible!” she said, and then carefully related all that she remembered.  She told how she had gone out for dinner and fixed soup for Holmes and Watson, how Watson had been called away before he could eat.

“Who, exactly, fixed this soup?” the inspector demanded, though in a gentle tone.

“Well, I got everything out, but the girls did a bit of chopping as well; we were all three in and out of the kitchen.  I was getting ready to go out, you see…”

“And you saw nothing strange?”

“Nothing like that, nothing at all!  We were in and out but one of us was almost always in the kitchen; I can’t see how someone could have gotten past us!”

“How about you, Miss…”

“Worth, sir,” the maid offered in a nervous voice as she continued to wring her hands and a slight stutter to her speech, “Barbe..Barbara Worth.”

“Did you notice anything odd as you prepared the dinner?”

“Nothing!” she cried shrilly, “I swear, the soup was exactly as we always make it!”   Lestrade had to resist the urge to put a finger to his ears at her volume as he gave her a bland, encouraging smile.

“So you helped to prepare it, but you didn’t eat it?”

“It’s my birthday,” she explained for the second time that evening, “After Mrs. Hudson left, M…Maggie and I…she wasn’t to eat it either, I didn’t see her…we ate together but after…I didn’t know until Dr. Watson realized…”  And the maid broke anew into fresh sobs.  Lestrade patted his pockets for a handkerchief but Mrs. Hudson beat him to it, throwing her arm about the poor maid’s shoulders as well.

“This is all very elaborate,” Lestrade remarked, “Either the assassin had insight into the household and arranged it so you would be spared, or the fiend did not care who else was hurt and it was only good fortune that the entire house isn’t dead!”  Seeing their faces at that speculation, the inspector suddenly remembered his audience and refrained from saying more of his thoughts out loud.  He was curious, though, whether the doctor was called away through similar fortune or through similar design; was this assassin only after Holmes or the two together?  Knowing this could well help him discover who had made such an attempt on his friend’s life.  An attempt that very well might still succeed.  Shaking himself mentally to not dwell on such thoughts, he returned to his questions.

“I returned early from my dinner to see that the soup was gone and the dishes already begun,” Mrs. Hudson continued her tale, “The doctor returned shortly after I did.  I prepared sandwiches for him as there was no soup; I thought Mr. Holmes had eaten it…Everyone was fine when I brought the sandwiches.  It was only after…poor Maggie just collapsed…”

“Inspector Lestrade!” one of his men called suddenly from the entranceway, “I think someone should look at this!”

Lestrade went back to the kitchen swiftly, followed by Mrs. Hudson and the maid, to see Wilson holding up a tea cup.

“This was being brewed for tea,” he explained, and using a teaspoon he held up a twig with a bit of green budding off it, though it had been finely cut, “but it doesn’t look like any herb I’d want to drink.”

“That’s from a yew tree!” Lestrade exclaimed, looking at it closely, “The very thing that poisoned Mr. Holmes!  Who brewed this?  Someone fetch the tea set…we’ve all been drinking the tea!”

“It’s alright, I think,” Wilson explained, “I already checked; the other pot’s a different color…”  But he didn’t look entirely certain and it was nerve-racking to think that they might all be poisoned and just not know it yet.

“There’s more here!” the second man told them, and he upended a container that had been hidden in the far corner of a cabinet.  A whole bundle of whole twigs fell out, as well as a few berries.  There was no possible doubt what plant they came from.

“Well…” Lestrade said, “It seems that our assassin has not only managed to stash away their poison in your very kitchen, but they’ve managed to brew a pot of tea!  It seems clear enough…who all has had access to this kitchen?”

“I can’t even imagine!” Mrs. Hudson cried, still staring at the bundle of twigs, “But why would they hide it here?  How did they get in?”

Lestrade did not answer, though he did look at both women very sharply.  The obvious answer is that they didn’t get in; the assassin was already there.  If this were any other case, if he had been dealing with strangers…he would be bringing both ladies in for questioning already, possibly dragging the doctor from his friend’s side as well.  But this wasn’t any other case, and the idea of accusing Mrs. Hudson or the doctor seemed utterly absurd.  There was the maid as well, of course, but taking her in meant having to deal with more hysterics and besides, Lestrade prided himself on being a good judge of character.  Miss Barbara Worth was not faking her distress.  Still, he would keep an eye on her.

“Wilson, Anderson…has this room been left unguarded at any time?”

“Ah…”

“Well…”

“You did…tell us…to check out the house…upstairs at the crime scene…look about the grounds for footprints…Mr. Holmes is always very keen on footprints…” the two men stuttered their way through an explanation.  Lestrade gave a long suffering sigh.  The obvious, short answer was that yes, the room had been empty long enough for the assassin to make their way in, brew the tea, and stash their supply of poison before slipping away unnoticed.  Unlikely though that seemed.  None of this made any sense.  He couldn’t really explain why the assassin would stash their supply in the kitchen, unless said assassin lived in the house, but there was never a pair of less likely suspects he’d ever had to interrogate…unless…perhaps it was an attempt to frame someone in the household?  Perhaps they didn’t realize how well Lestrade knew them all and thought suspicion would go to the housekeeper…but if they knew things well enough to time the poisoning to only effect Holmes, if they were able to sneak in right under their noses to brew tea, then surely they’d be well informed of their connection to the yard.  It was enough to give anyone a headache.  This was the sort of case he would probably normally bring to Holmes…but no matter.  He was not going to let this murder or attempted murder go unsolved.

Putting aside all speculation, and murmuring to Wilson to keep an eye on the maid, just in case, Lestrade went upstairs to consult Dr. Reid on the matter of the tea.  He also looked in on Holmes and Watson.  Holmes looked disturbingly like a corpse, for all that he continued to breathe.

“There was no trace of yew in the tea I drank,” Dr. Reid assured him when pulled aside to be consulted, “It has a very distinct, bitter taste, you know.”  And even though he was only confirming what Wilson had said, Lestrade still gave a sigh of relief.  Then he looked back into the bedroom, at the doctor sitting despondently by the still figure in the bed, clutching a white hand tightly, and he found himself clinching his own fists in a sympathetic gesture.  He would find the fiend, and soon, before the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes became just plain murder.


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes continued to live.  Eventually, Lestrade and his men had done all they could and left, promising to be back after the autopsy of the poor maid.  Watson thanked them distractedly while Mrs. Hudson gave them a proper seeing off.

            “If you feel at all unsafe, I can leave Wilson here with you to keep an eye on things,” Lestrade suggested, feeling bad to leave them after such a horrible ordeal and with all the men in the house distracted with Holmes’s illness.

            “Thank you, Inspector, but we will be fine.  We are used to all sorts thanks to Mr. Holmes and his investigations.”  Lestrade took his leave.

            Upstairs in the bedroom, Holmes lay as still as death.  Watson sat with him, features grim, as he watched him breathe.  Holmes had been to the very edge of death, on occasion scaring Watson towards an early grave himself by seeming to cease even his breaths, but Dr. Reid and Watson both kept a close vigilance, giving pressure to his chest to aid his lungs and giving as much of the stimulant as they dared.  Holmes had yet to take that final fall.

            And he was, slowly, seeming to improve.  His breath was even, and now if Watson pressed his stethoscope to his chest he could detect a feeble beat which he swore was stronger each time he checked.  Watson was just getting ready to take a measure of his pulse again when a disturbance outside the door distracted him.  Feeling an uncharacteristic anger that anyone would dare to disturb his sick friend he strode to the door and threw it open, going to see the cause.

            “Please, I need to see Mr. Holmes!” a man was insisting to a belligerent Mrs. Hudson as he attempted to force his way beyond her.  Barbara the maid hovered uselessly behind her as he pressed into the sitting room, doing more to help than hinder his progress as she floundered uselessly.

            “Enough!” Watson exclaimed, “Sir, you are trespassing in a private home.  Mr. Holmes cannot see you.”

            “Please, it is a matter of life and death!” he insisted.  He sounded quite earnest, and Watson had been in the position to see many desperate clients whose plight he normally sympathized with, but in this instance his nerves were still raw from nursing his friend on the brink of death.  In fact, he had to fight a compulsion to grab this man and throw him out by force.  He didn’t, but he did study him, his suspicions raised.  Surely the would-be assassin wouldn’t dare to walk right in and introduce himself?  Just in case, Watson made note of his features.  He was of average height, dark haired and with an odd Italian accent.  He sounded distraught.

            “Mr. Holmes can see no one!” Dr. Reid announced, having come himself to help Mrs. Hudson with the intrusion, “Go to the police if the matter is so urgent!”  And between the two men and Mrs. Hudson’s also formidable persuasion, they managed to throw him out.  Finally, Watson returned to the bedroom, a heavy feeling of dread in his heart.  He was suddenly afraid that leaving Holmes alone would be just the moment he chose to expire, and the doctor hurried his step.  But when he opened the door it was not to find Holmes laying still and silent as he feared.

“Watson?  Was that a client?”  The voice was rough and weak but clearly spoken.

“Holmes!” Watson exclaimed, going quickly to his side, “Lie back, don’t stress yourself so, how do you feel?”

“You seem concerned, Watson,” Holmes observed, eyes sharp as ever, “You have accosted a man of five feet and eight inches and have spent a night awake and in extreme worry.”

“Lay back,” Watson ordered as Holmes continued to struggle to sit up, “And tell me how you can possibly know the height and sex of the man we just threw out?  The rest is obvious enough.  Are you thirsty?  We have some water here.”

“Quite, thank you, though I’d prefer something stronger.  And as to the man, that can be deduced by the height, if not by the voice I heard shouting quite loudly as I awoke.  And the height is easy enough…” But his explanation was interrupted by Dr. Reid bringing the water, which Holmes gulped down eagerly, not letting it down despite the doctors’ cries of ‘easy’ and ‘gently’ until it was empty.

“And how was it simple?” Watson asked while Dr. Reid went to refill the glass, “For I cannot imagine how you could possible know.”

“Simplicity itself,” Holmes insisted, sounding almost his usual self except for the weakness and continued gruffness of his voice, “I can see where your shirt has been mussed on the arm.  From that I can see the height at which the hands grasped you, giving me the likely height of the shoulders and I need only add the height of an average head.”

“Remarkable,” Watson stated, his voice soft and filled with a relief in tensions that had nothing to do with Holmes’s deduction abilities.  Holmes slowly allowed Watson to push him back, relaxing on the pillows as the doctor fussed.  He drank two more glasses before he began to slow, his eyes looking over the doctor even as Watson looked over him.

“And now, Doctor, you really must go to bed.”

“Out of the question, I have a patient,” Watson answered stubbornly.  Holmes gave him the sternest look he could muster, despite not having even the energy to raise himself from the bed.

“A patient who is improving,” Holmes answered him, “Taxine poisoning, I take it?”

“That is what I guessed and Dr. Reid concurred, not to mention the yew twigs found in the kitchen and brewed in a tea.”  He was not surprised that Holmes was able to self diagnose once his mind was no longer addled; Holmes had made an extensive study on all kinds of poisons.

“In our kitchen?  You did not drink the tea?” Holmes asked, his voice alarmed and he started to sit up again.

“No one drank it,” Watson assured him, gently pushing him back.  Holmes looked thoughtful but despite his interest his eyes began to droop.

“Go to sleep,” Watson instructed him, “The case can wait.”

“Only if you will,” Holmes murmured back, “Tell him, Doctor.”

“I’m afraid I must agree with him,” Dr. Reid said from behind Watson, startling him, “I can wake you if anything happens.”  Watson wavered, knowing his anxiety would make for a poor sleep in any case.  Holmes seemed to know that as well.

“Lay down here, beside me,” he suggested, “You can keep me company and I will lay still like a good patient.  And if I have a relapse you will know.”  Still Watson hesitated, despite the deep weariness in his limbs, a tiredness of the very soul that had begun to arise the moment he knew for almost certain that Holmes would not die.  “It would not be the first time we have shared a bed,” Holmes pointed out.  Finally, Watson gave in.

“If it will make you lay back and sleep, I’ll lie here with you,” he said, and he removed as much of his clothes as could be considered decent before laying himself down.

“Beneath the covers, old chap,” Holmes instructed, his voice stern despite his eyes being half closed.  Grumbling lightly, Watson complied.  Dr. Reid, remained awake, sitting close at hand as they settled themselves.  Holmes fell back asleep almost at once, breathing lightly and with slightly more color to his face than before.  Mrs. Hudson came once to check on them before retiring herself.  Watson stayed awake a while longer, but finally managed to relax.  Slowly, he drifted into a deep sleep, one hand resting lightly over Holmes’s chest, his heart beating slowly beneath it.

When he awakened again, it was not because the heart had stopped.  On the contrary, the heartbeat had, if anything, grown stronger.  What woke him was a coughing fit, his own, and the strong smell of smoke within the room.  Just as this realization pierced his consciousness, a cry was taken up from without.

“Fire!”

The building was burning.


	7. Chapter 7

“Ho- _cough_ ,” Watson began, grabbing at his companion’s arm.  Holmes barely stirred though he too had begun to cough in his sleep as more and more smoke seeped into the room.

“Doctor Watson, we must be quick!” Dr. Reid said, suddenly at his side, “We will bring him out together.”  The other doctor had one arm across his mouth and nose to help filter the smoke while he used the other to help up their patient.  Watson quickly took his other arm.

“Wa…?” Holmes attempted to say, his throat rough and broken by coughs.  He made a weak attempt at helping the two doctors as they lifted him to his feet, but most of his weight still leaned heavily over them.  Watson had no breath to answer; the world he had awoken to seemed a nightmare of impossibly thick smoke that choked the air from their lungs and left them slow and lumberous.  And if Watson felt so overcome, he feared what a recovering patient must endure.  It was too soon to add such strains to Holmes’s heart and other organs.

They made for the door, finding no heat but a horrendous and noxious cloud.  Watson had been down this path a million times, yet he felt strange and disoriented in this fog.  Stumbling and attempting not to trip over furniture he led Holmes and Reid towards where he felt the way out should be, only to feel rebuked by a sudden blast of heat.  They were heading straight into the flames.

“W-, w-,” Holmes attempted to say, unable to get the words out between rounds of desperate coughing.

  
“Here,” Watson attempted to say, when he felt Holmes tugging weakly at his elbow.

“Win-,” he managed to choke out and then Watson understood, and turning them he led them towards the window.  His lungs choked, his mind began to feel light and he became afraid that he might pass out before he reached it, thereby dooming not only himself but Reid and Holmes to the furnace that crept up the stairs.  Then the weight he was dragging suddenly increased, pulling him down. 

“Holmes?” he managed to hack out through his sleeve, but Holmes made no response; he did not even seem to be coughing.  He did not seem to be breathing.

Watson shook him, coughing out his name.

“Go,” Reid called to him, his voice thick and rough, “Crawl.”  And Watson discovered the air was clearer there upon the floor.  They inched forward, dragging Holmes between them as a dead weight, until Watson’s groping hand came upon the wall.  Eyes watering painfully and throat raw, he heaved himself up, reaching with his hand until it came upon the window.  The world spinning horribly, he managed to open it and lean out.

Air at last, and he coughed harshly, drawing it in desperately, before ducking his head back into the room.  Reid did not copy him, a heavy weight next to Holmes.

“Come on,” Watson half sobbed, shaking both their shoulders, and Reid let out a harsh gasping cough and allowed Watson to heave him half out the window.  While the doctor coughed in fresher air, Watson felt the heat in the room rising and desperately grabbed Holmes’s unresponsive form.  Having no breath for conversation, he got the other doctor’s attention by tugging at his leg, and Reid weakly managed to help haul Holmes up next to him.  He kept pulling him, and before Watson realized what was happening, Holmes had disappeared out the window.

Watson gave a small cry of alarm and felt himself falling back to the floor, the hazy sight of the open window swimming as his vision began to grow dark about the edges.  Then Reid’s hands were pulling at him, and with his last burst of energy he heaved himself up again.  Down below them he did not see, as he had feared, Holmes’s broken body.  There was a large group of people gathered and a sheet arranged between them as a net, and Watson understood and let himself fall.

He fell for a long time.

When he awoke again to the world, it was once more to his own harsh coughs and to excited voices.  He reveled in the fresh air of the night, his thoughts hazy as a kaleidoscope of voices swirled away to the side.  A woman’s voice, distraught, a soothing male, a smoke rough response.  One voice was notably absent, and he came fully into himself with a jolt, his eyes searching.

“Holmes?” he managed to hack out, his throat filled with sand paper.

“Oh, Dr Watson, thank goodness!” the distraught woman cried, this time registering as Mrs. Hudson.  There were a lot of other people around as well; police, firemen, and gawkers all gathered in the street.  He couldn’t see Holmes.  Where was Holmes?

“This is getting to be serious business,” Inspector Lestrade said from next to her, “First poison and now arson.  Just relax, Doctor, and we’ll have you to the hospital in no time.”

“No…” Watson began, breaking into a coughing fit.  His chest ached and throat felt like he had swallowed glass but he finally managed to say, “No need…where’s Holmes?”

“They’re looking after him right over there,” Lestrade answered, “He’s under guard now and looked after.”

“He’s breathing?” Watson asked, “He wasn’t…” And finally someone came with a glass of liquid.  Watson barely glanced at it before gulping it down.  It burned down his throat and only after did he think it might not be smart to accept drinks from strangers.  But Lestrade had let the drink come, and whatever Holmes said, Watson trusted him this far at least.  It was too much effort to fear for everything.  At this point, he seriously felt it might be a relief to be poisoned anyway; he could let go of the case, of his anxiety, of everything and hand it on to someone else to worry over.  But as far as he trusted Lestrade, he trusted no one to properly see after Holmes.  So he didn’t let go, and didn’t find the drink to be poisoned though it was barely adequate to quench the glass lodged in his throat.  And a moment later Mrs. Hudson managed to bring up some tea, though from where Watson couldn’t imagine.

“There, Doctor,” she said, “And we checked it carefully for yew leaves and other poisons.”  He drank it more slowly than the first, his eyes searching in the direction Lestrade had indicated earlier as he hoped to catch sight of his friend.  He saw Reid instead, coughing harshly and half insensate as he was plied with a drink.  Then he heard a familiar and beautiful voice, for all that it was weak, rough, and being employed as a sharp edged weapon.

“No, I’m afraid ( _cough_ ) that the standards of medical license must have become distressingly ( _cough_ ) lax, if you cannot grasp the simplest instruction of your native ( _cough_ _cough_ )…tongue.  I do _not_ need to go with you and my coloring ( _cough_ ) is not smoke (cough) inhal…( _cough_ )…ation, it is tax…( _cough_ )…it is…( _cough_ , _cough_ )…I need my ( **cough** )…my Watson, not…( _cough_ )…Where…?”  As his voice grew distressingly rougher the further into his speech he got, Watson took it as his cue to come to the rescue, though who he was rescuing from whom he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Here, old boy,” he managed to say without breaking into another coughing fit as he stumbled to his feet, Lestrade discreetly helping him as he stumbled on his bad leg.  “It’s alright,” he said as he stumbled over, trying to give them a reassuring smile despite looking rather like an escaped patient himself, “I’m a doctor.”  The two men hovering over Holmes looked uncertain, but when Lestrade also gave them his assurances, they gladly gave Holmes over to their care and left.

“But are you sure you shouldn’t go?” Lestrade asked, concern flavoring his words.  Watson didn’t even want to consider what he must look like for Lestrade to get that sound in his voice as he looked them over, but if Holmes was any way to judge then he must be blackened over with soot, clothes torn, eyes red and skin pale.  Holmes also did indeed have a faint blueness still to his lips, and whatever he had said earlier it was not entirely up to his previous illness as the color had been almost returned to normal before the fire.  In fact, Watson wasn’t entirely sure they shouldn’t be being treated, except that he knew Holmes would never stand for it and in the long run it would be easier to get Holmes to relax if he was allowed a little bit of effort now.  And Watson really didn’t want to be poked and prodded himself with doctors at the hospital when he knew perfectly well all that was wrong with himself and didn’t think it needed.

“Holmes…” he said, and instead of all the instructions he would like to give, instructions that would almost definitely be ignored, he settled upon “drink your tea.”  And Holmes did.

The fire was out quickly, it turned out.  It had been set upon the stairs but had done little damage beyond them, though the smoke had done a bit more.  The fire brigade dispersed.  The onlookers were slower to leave, but as most of the police departed and the rest moved back inside to the kitchen, which didn’t get the smoke damage the rest of the house was treated with, they slowly dispersed.  In the kitchen a makeshift bed was made up of cloaks and curtains where Holmes was meant to rest.  He was surprisingly accommodating, going as far as to lie down as Watson instructed and close his eyes, but despite an obvious exhaustion he did not rest, wanting to know the facts he had missed by virtue of being half dead earlier.  He listened quietly, except for the still persistent coughing which necessitated him being propped up upon a couple of chair cushions, to what information had been gathered on the fire first, and in fact looked on the verge of falling asleep after all, when his eyes flew open and he looked about with an expression of distress.

“Holmes?” Watson asked, worried.  He had been propped up on his own set of cushions and coats while Mrs. Hudson continued to ply everyone with tea, as well as something stronger for their nerves, but his earlier rest had restored him somewhat, despite the tiresome cough and his bout with oxygen deprivation, and he was not ready to sleep.

“But we are not all here!” Holmes said, eyes darting about the room, “Wherever is Gladstone?  And the two girls who are ever giggling in the kitchen?”  The others stared at him and Mrs. Hudson turned away, distraught.

“What is the last thing you remember before being ill?” Watson asked carefully.  Holmes frowned as he looked inward upon his memories.

“You were called away before we ate…Nanny hovered…I took up some reading as you returned…and…oh,”  Something very like pain briefly shadowed his face before he managed to smooth it away into indifference.  “The dog is dead, then.  And…” his expression grew more troubled.  If there was anything disconcerting to one with a memory as Holmes’s, it was for that memory to fail.  Watson was not entirely surprised at the failure, however; his casebooks on yew poisoning indicated it to be likely.  After a moment Holmes continued, though his words sounded less sure than before.  “A cry downstairs…someone dead…the soup was poisoned?”

“Yes,” Watson confirmed, and when Holmes opened his eyes to look at him questioningly, Watson took up the narrative to fill in the blank spots.  Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson gave their share as well, jumping in when Watson’s throat began to sound too rough.  It was as they finished with the fire, and after Holmes had once again succumbed to closing his eyes, that the knock at the door came.

Lestrade opened it, ready to send whoever it was away unless it turned out to be someone from the yard with more news.  It was not.  It was a woman of middle age wearing clothes which seemed unsuited in their coarseness to the smoothness of her skin and the regal bearing of her head.  A larger man stood at her back and another woman with him but they stayed back with the cab that stood in the street.  Two policemen stood watching them suspiciously but backed off when Lestrade gave them a nod.

“Excuse me,” the woman said with an accent that was not British, “Is this the address of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?  I have a matter of some urgency with him.”

“I’m sorry, Madame, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes is unavailable at the moment,” Lestrade answered firmly, “If it is truly urgent, I can recommend taking it to the Scotland Yard.”  But the lady was only half listening, for her eyes had moved past him to the burnt stairs, the stench of smoke still strong in the room, and an expression of great distress came over her.

“Oh dear!” she cried with some dismay, “I seem to be too late!”  Then Lestrade’s expression changed from polite to interested.

“Too late, Madame?  Whatever do you mean?”

“Perhaps,” Holmes said roughly from the doorway, Watson hovering disapprovingly at his elbow and not quite holding him up, “the lady should be allowed in.”  And despite the brief coughing fit and near collapse that followed, his eyes took her in with a sharp clarity which belied his weakened state, and no one doubted in the least that he already knew a great deal more of the situation than all the able bodied people in the room.

“Yes, yes of course,” Lestrade agreed.  And she was allowed through to the kitchen while Watson half carried Holmes back to his repose and Lestrade shut the door firmly behind them.


	8. Chapter 8

If the woman was surprised or perturbed to be taken into a kitchen, offered a small wooden chair that had been stripped of its cushions, or that the man she had come to see was seeing her from a makeshift bed, still largely covered in soot and, despite the coat wrapped about his shoulders, also quite obviously dressed as though for bed…well despite all of this the woman gave no sign that she found it odd but thanked Mrs. Hudson for the chair and smiled kindly at Watson and Lestrade, who were both making discrete efforts to smooth away some of the soot from their clothes and make themselves presentable.  
  
“I’ll just make some more tea,” Mrs. Hudson offered, not knowing anything else to do, and awkwardly set about to do just that and pretend everyone wasn’t in the same room with her as she moved about.  
  
“Now, Madame,” Lestrade said, standing near to her because there were no more chairs, “I am Inspector Lestrade and would be much obliged if you know anything about this fire?” He smiled at her with something of an attempt at charm mixed duly with suspicion. The woman smiled back at him, greatly impressing the others in the room that she managed to overlook how Lestrade had, unknowingly, blackened half his face in his earlier attempt to straighten himself out.  
  
“I’m afraid I know far less than you hope, Inspector,” she answered, “But I did have some fears, after what happened when I made it known I intended to seek him out.” Her eyes moved to look at the form lying upon the floor with his eyes closed though he still appeared to be listening and a faint smile about his lips contrasted with the deathly pallor of his face. At least Watson was happy to note that his lips were no longer blue and the coughing fits had slowed. He still did cough though, generally timed to be whenever Lestrade started to speak.  
  
“Well,” the Inspector said, valiantly ignoring the coincidence of Holmes’s timing, “Perhaps you might begin by telling us your name and why you wished to seek out Mr. Holmes’s assistance?”  
  
The coughing fit didn’t quite manage to stop as Lestrade finished but Holmes did make a sudden effort to control it which resulted in him choking and coughing harder than before until Mrs. Hudson gave him a drink. The woman looked quite concerned and didn’t begin to answer until Holmes had fallen silent and exhausted back against his pillows.  
  
“I’m not sure it good for me to say all to everyone here,” she began, still managing not to sound impolite, “It is a delicate matter. I am assured of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watsons’ discretion as they handled the affair of my brother…”  
  
“Perhaps your name, at least,” Lestrade asked, after waiting a somewhat in vain for anyone in the room to assure the lady of his own discretion in matters. She hesitated for one second before answering.  
  
“You may call me Marie Louise.” At that Holmes gave a brief laugh, still not opening his eyes, which turned into another coughing fit.  
  
“I see,” Lestrade answered, looking slightly perturbed that she was being less than forthcoming but still attempting to remain congenial, “And can you tell me nothing of your business? Any suspicions on who would wish you harm?”  
  
“I don’t know in the least,” she answered, equally congenial. Then there was silence broken only be coughing, Watson this time. Finally, before Lestrade could start growing edgier and demanding that the woman stop obstructing a police investigation, Holmes sat up.  
  
“Mrs…Louise,” he announced, “Or might we call you Countess Von Kramm, as I believe your brother wished to pass himself.” Watson gave a start, quite obviously recognizing the name and he made a move to stand or bow, not seeming to know what to do with himself. Lestrade got the look of someone who recognizes a sound but can’t recall from where. Mrs. Hudson did not seem to recognize the name at all but merely continued to play around with the teacups and the like, double checking for poisons as she laid them out. Marie Louise betrayed her surprise by a raised eyebrow.  
  
“It seems I am found out, just as my brother was,” she said, “I will ask you to show me the same discretion you gave to my brother.” Here her eyes darted briefly towards Lestrade and then even to Mrs. Hudson. It seemed she would trust no one but the detective and the doctor themselves.  
  
“Indeed,” Holmes answered, “Though I can assure you the good inspector is quite harmless.” At that Lestrade sat up straighter, seemingly comforted by the words, though if Holmes meant them as he took them was anyone’s guess.   
  
"Miss…Countess,” Lestrade said, his eyes still turned slightly inward as he attempted to place where he had heard that name before, “Surely you must understand the gravity of this investigation. One is already dead, and Mr. Holmes half in the grave…” Here Holmes made a rather indignant noise which did nothing to contradict Lestrade’s statement as it ended in one of his worst coughing fits thus far and he fair collapsed when it was over. Marie Louise looked to be quite distraught.  
  
“Someone has died?” she asked, her eyes moving involuntarily in the direction of the burnt staircase.

  
“Two,” Holmes corrected, his voice sounding ghastly and weak but still managing to be slightly petulant.  
  
“Our dog and a maid, both poisoned with the same substance that has weakened Mr. Holmes,” Watson offered, “This was before the fire.”  
  
“Now, Doctor, there’s no need to tell all,” Lestrade insisted, still looking distrustful of the mysterious supposed countess.  
  
“Nonsense,” Holmes insisted, “Her help could be  _cough_ , could be… _cough_ _cough_ ”  
  
“Lie down, Holmes,” Watson insisted in his best stern doctor’s voice, despite the roughness that still clung to his own throat. Holmes did as requested, looking at the doctor with some concern of his own. Once he was down, however, he continued his speech.  
  
“Invaluable.” He paid for it by another coughing fit that left him clutching a pillow Watson had given him tightly until it was over.  
  
“I’m afraid this is a bad time,” Marie Louise suggested, her eyes looking worriedly between the doctor and the detective.  At that, the inspector made a somewhat hopeful noise in the back of his throat to gain her attention.  
  
“I know the doctor’s stories have made us out to be somewhat inept,” Lestrade said, making Watson flush slightly, “But I think you will find he exaggerated. Now, as the men you came to see are too ill…”  
  
“Too ill?!” Holmes demanded, attempting to sit up once more only to fall back when Mrs. Hudson unexpectedly appeared at his shoulder, pushing him gently back down again after setting the tea tray out on the table.  
  
“Now,” she said, “Who wants some tea?”  
  
Holmes surprisingly acquiesced to the landlady and lay quietly with his tea and all semblance of confrontation was dissipated into the silence of clinks and polite murmurs between the others.  
  
“He is right, you know,” Watson said suddenly, and still looking a bit embarrassed, “I may have exaggerated slightly in my stories…”  
  
“Nonsense,” Holmes insisted, sounding only slightly better with the intake of liquid, “You merely state things as they happen. It is hardly the writers fault if his subject is so open to…criticism.” As this was blatantly the opposite of what Holmes usually said about his works, Watson broke off his embarrassment to stare at the detective. Holmes squirmed slightly and finished by mumbling, “though they could use a bit less dramatization, of course.”  
  
“It is your work, Doctor Watson, which first attracted my attention to the matter,” Marie Louise said, “I recognized my brother at once, of course, despite your kind efforts to hide his identity.”  
  
“Well, we were sworn to secrecy,” Watson answered, looking slightly flustered at having such a woman as a reader.  
  
“Which is how I recognized your discretion,” she said, “That you took the trouble to change his name as well as the…intricacies involved. Though even if it had gone as you said, such a photo could well have caused trouble.”  
  
“That Bohemian affair!” Lestrade cried suddenly in triumph at placing the name before the meaning of his own words came to him and he became as flustered as Watson. “My goodness! You don’t mean to tell me that the Countess is sister to…to a king!” And he didn’t seem to know quite what to do with himself, whether he should bow, offer apologies, or continue in his interrogation regardless of the woman’s rank.  
  
“Sister to a prince, more like,” Holmes intruded, “As she said, Watson did somewhat falsify the account of the whole affair.” His eyes turned briefly towards Lestrade, “Particularly those parts which seem to put us at odds with the law.” His eyes returned again to the lady. “I’m surprised you recognized it at all, in fact.”  
  
“I might not have, had he not kept the name Irene Adler after changing so much,” she admitted, “Everyone in the court has always been well aware of my brother’s…friendships. And of course a king of Bohemia would catch my attention.”  
  
“So your brother is not, in fact, the king of Bohemia?” Lestrade asked, still trying to wrap his mind about the fact that he was in such high company, standing in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen with his clothes grimy with soot.  
  
“Was not,” Holmes corrected, eyes still closed, “I of course heard about the instances of Mayerling Lodge. You have my condolences.” Lestrade looked utterly bewildered at this.  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “It is just that affair that I have come to you for.” Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned his sharp gaze upon her.  
  
“I need not tell you that two years is a long wait to seek council on the subject.”  
  
“I did not quite realize in the beginning that there was need,” she answered, “And then I did not know who to seek. It was Dr. Watson’s story that made me realize…”  
  
“And who did you inform of your intentions?” Holmes asked, eyes closed and giving all semblance of falling asleep once more.  
  
“A good deal of people, I’m afraid, might have heard my intentions. I did not know at the time how very sensitive this news would be. My own family practically forbade me to pursue the matter, but I would not hear of it. I was quite close to Rudolf, Mr. Holmes. I do not like to think he would act as they say he did, no matter his feelings for Miss Marie.”  
  
“Yes, of course. I did not think the story quite credible when I first heard it, though he was a…excitable man, as I recall.”  
  
“He was very perturbed over that photograph,” Watson added, giving her a sympathetic look.  
  
“The photo of him with Irene Adler?” Lestrade asked, looking on the others with excitement. They all looked at him in return, seeming unwilling to confirm or deny anything.  
  
“Quite,” Holmes said at last, before returning his attention to Marie Louise. “And there was an occurrence to warn you off the consultation…?”   
  
“Yes!” she cried, looking quite startled. Watson smiled at her gently, knowing the effect his friend often had on others.  
  
“You told us as much as you came in the door,” he reminded her, and she settled, flushing slightly even as she smiled.  
  
“Of course. Even after reading your works, Doctor, I don’t think I was quite prepared for meeting the man.  Though I did half expect him to reveal my life story at a glance.”  
  
“No need to show off,” Holmes said, eyes closed once more, “The occurrence, please. I take it poison was involved.” She started again.  
  
“Yes, as a matter of fact. My horse was killed…though it was not proved to be a murder of sorts. It was accepted that he must have come upon a yew tree while wandering in the pasture somehow…an unfortunate accident. But how did you know?”  
  
“It was an odd choice of poisons,” Holmes rasped in his rough voice, “And one I should have detected, if I was not a bit…distracted. And if it was, as I suspect, the same person or people involved…an assassin rarely departs from their tried method of assassination.”  
  
“Well, a fire is new,” Watson pointed out, “Unless…” he turned towards the lady, questioning.  
  
“No fires,” she confirmed, “Just the horse…and my sons. My two youngest grew awfully ill one day…”  
  
“Still alive, I trust?” Holmes asked. Watson gave him a look which was rather lost as Holmes had not opened his eyes. “Continue.”  
  
“There is not much more to say. My children are being watched under the guard of their grandfather with their cousin, and I came, against all familial advice. I wish to know who would threaten my children…who may have killed my brother and his…and her.”  
  
“Indeed.” Holmes answered, before sitting up slowly. “Mrs. Hudson, I believe it may be prudent to recover in a hotel for the time being, until the house can be sorted. Can you have someone keep an eye upon things in case our arsonist returns, Inspector?”  
  
“I’m sure I can find a man or two to spare,” Lestrade answered, standing up straighter, “But Mr. Holmes, can’t you…”  
  
“Not now, Inspector, I find myself needing time to recuperate, after all, and I’m sure the good Doctor could use with a break himself. Now, are you sure of your own safety, your highness?”  
  
“I am, I have a well trained escort whom I trust implicitly.”  
  
“Then I suggest we put the investigation on hold for a day. Mrs. Hudson, I trust you can make the necessary arrangements for a cab?”  
  
“Of course,” she answered, “But surely you aren’t going out like that!”  
  
“Of course not,” he answered, “You said the fire did not damage much upstairs?”  
  
“We don’t think so,” she answered, “But Mr. Holmes, the stairs are ruined. How do you expect to get up?”  
  
“I won’t. I’ll send an irregular up to fetch things down. And some notes, I think, before our arsonist can finish their attempt.”  
  
“It wasn’t simply an attempt on our lives?” Watson asked, feeling even slower than usual between everything that happened.  
  
“It is definitely a change in method if it were, and doubtless the assassin would not have been displeased if it had been the result…but no. The real target in this attempt was evidence. They read your stories and realized that, fictitious though the account might be, we have notes that are not fictitious in the least, and which may be quite damaging.  
  
“So you believe the affair my brother was involved in four years ago, and his death two years later, are in fact related?” Marie Louise asked.  
  
“I am entirely convinced. Now, let us meet again…what time is it?”  
  
“Eight in the morning,” Mrs. Hudson supplied.  
  
“Tomorrow then…around ten. Would that suit you, Doctor?”  
  
“If we must,” Watson answered, somewhat disapproving, but knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep Holmes down for much longer than that. And so the impromptu meeting dispersed, and though Lestrade escorted Marie Louise out the door and attempted to persuade more from her, he still knew very little. Watson only knew slightly more, though he suspected Holmes to have half the case worked out already…or he would if he wasn’t falling asleep in spite of his every intention. Mrs. Hudson did not seem extremely interested, but then, she had sharp ears and knew when to keep quiet.


	9. Chapter 9

“Holmes!  You cannot seriously be considering lighting that!”

Holmes looked up at Watson with a slightly bewildered expression, one hand holding a match ready to strike and the other clutching his pipe.

“I certainly don’t see why not,” he answered, and struck the match.  Watson watched with a stern expression as Holmes took the first puff and promptly fell into a coughing fit which went on alarmingly for a full minute.  Watson offered a glass with one hand while removing the offending pipe from Holmes’s grip with the other.  As the coughing abated, Holmes gave his pipe a betrayed, wounded look, carefully avoiding looking in Watson’s direction.

“Ah,” he rasped after a moment when he had somewhat recovered, “Perhaps it would be a good idea to forgo smoking for the moment.”

“As your physician and one who has seen far too much smoke recently, I definitely concur,” Watson answered, at which Holmes finally glanced at him with something of guilt in his expression but said nothing.  After a moment of such underhanded scrutiny, Watson felt the need to say, “Though at least my lungs were not already compromised from illness.  You should be sleeping, you know.

“Mother hen,” Holmes rasped fondly, and quite ignoring the suggestion as he turned back to his pipe with a somewhat forlorn expression.  “How am I meant to think if I can’t smoke?”

“I’m sure the two are not contingent upon one another.  You need rest, Holmes.”

“My dear fellow, I have been resting,” Holmes pointed out, “It is you who tried to stay up night and day.  And my mind is far too stimulated for sleep.”

“Lie your body down then and let it rest, and your mind can do as it likes,” Watson suggested.

“I have notes to go over.  The Bohemian affair was, after all, many years ago.”

“And you have, no doubt, memorized all the notes by now and could read them in your sleep.”

In the end, and somewhat surprisingly, Holmes finally did allow Watson to drag him to the bed, a fact which left Watson even more worried than before, despite it being what he had wanted in the first place.  An acquiescent Holmes was not a healthy one.

“Stop worrying and come lie down,” Holmes mumbled, eyes closed as he lay upon the bed, “Aren’t you always telling me to listen to my doctor?  Well now I do it, and you fret.”

“I have my own bed,” Watson reminded him, still looking over him with some concern despite his own exhaustion.  At least Holmes looked far better than he did when they had first dragged him from the building.  He had bathed for one, from the kitchen sink in fact at his own insistence when he could stand the grime on his body no longer, and his clothes were clean if slightly smoky in smell, fetched by one of the more agile climbers of the irregulars.  Still, he was only just recovering from the poisoning, he remained overly pale, and Watson had no second physician to help him keep watch; Dr. Reid had actually submitted to being taken to the hospital and had not returned.

“And from that bed you will worry and fret and rise every half hour to check on your patient, no matter how unnecessary.  Come lie down.”  Watson gave up then, knowing that Holmes was right though the reason he gave himself was that it would help to keep Holmes in bed and resting.  It also saved them both the dignity of Holmes admitting other reasons to want him there that had nothing to do with the doctor’s peace of mind and more to do with his own.  Watson knew Holmes cared; he didn’t need to make Holmes admit it.  And after all of the assassin attempts, he knew Holmes wouldn’t feel quite safe with them separated at any rate.

They had actually gone to bed quite early according to the rest of the world, at around six in the evening in fact, though after the day they had had, Watson felt more as though they had stayed up until six in the morning and his utter exhaustion pulled him under quickly, in spite of his intentions to make sure Holmes stayed resting until the detective would hopefully succumb to his own need for rest.  When Watson finally awoke, a good twelve hours later and still feeling comfortably sleepy, he was greatly relieved and equally worried to find Holmes still sleeping at his side.  He took his pulse and temperature on instinct, noting the raspy sounds in his chest with a small frown though his pulse was not as weak as it was before.  It wasn't as strong as he would like either, but certainly not at a dangerous level to find in a sleeping man.  Then, though he felt quite comfortable to lie about for several hours more, he decided he had done quite enough sleeping for the moment and despite the earliness of the hour he got himself up.

Holmes still did not stir, not even when Watson had breakfast delivered, but eventually the smell of food must have roused him because Watson was only halfway through his own meal when Holmes sat up, rumpled and pale but at the very least well rested.

"Watson?   Did I fall asleep?" he asked, sounding dismayed and slightly more emotional over it in his half asleep befuddlement than he would normally allow.  Watson frowned.  Holmes's quick acquiescence the night before was now explained; he had obviously intended to only stay in bed until Watson fell asleep.  Considering how quickly that occurred, Holmes must have been truly exhausted to have fallen as well.

"Never mind, old boy," Watson said cheerfully, resisting the urge to say something more along the lines of 'I told you so', "Won't you come and have some breakfast?"

"I..." Holmes began, most likely to deny any need for sustenance simply on instinct, but he trailed off before he began, considering both the argument that would ensue if he refused and the fact that he was, actually, feeling just short of ravenous.  "I think I might," he said instead, and was rewarded by a pleased smile by Watson as he moved slowly to join him.  His muscles still felt disturbingly weak but he tried to make out that he was simply still somewhat sleepy and in no hurry to eat.  Watson was not fooled but allowed Holmes's his dignity by not seeming to notice.

"I see you are looking over the notes yourself," Holmes remarked as he finally sat down, firmly resisting the sigh of relief that wanted to escape, "Anything stand out to you?"

"Nothing that calls for murder or arson," Watson answered, shaking his head slightly, "None of this makes any sense.  The method of the poison indicates an inside job, but no one inside would have done it; Mrs...er...the princess wanting us to solve the matter of her brother's death might be enough to incite a response if they feared you could solve it, but why are they so worried over a crime that is two years old?  Unless your very reputation is enough to scare them...or unless they think you might know something because of the Prince's case all those years back..."

"Which they would have read, in your little story," Holmes pointed out, somehow managing not to sound accusatory or even reproving, as he buttered some toast.

"You are going to have more than that?" Watson asked, eying his plate and silently Holmes gave in, either to Watson or his own hunger, and added a bit more.  "Well, I can find no hidden knowledge that we might supposedly have learned that could help us solve a two year old scandal."

"It wouldn't be obvious or we would have realized when the news hit the papers that there were flaws in the story," Holmes pointed out.

"You did say it sounded wrong," Watson reminded him, pouring Holmes some coffee before helping himself, "You were quite convinced something was being covered up."

"Nothing I could act upon," Holmes answered, and then with obvious distaste, "I suppose it was a... _feeling_."  He said the last word with some small amount of humor in the end with a small measure of embarrassment, and was quick to follow it up with, "Based upon logic, of course.  We had met the man and what the story claimed sounded...unlikely."  There was a moment of silence while Watson drank his coffee, reading over old notes, and Holmes managed to finish the entirety of his breakfast.  As Holmes poured himself a second cup, stubbornly ignoring the way even that act left his arms throbbing in protest, he suddenly looked around the room with some distress. "What is the time?" he asked, stumbling for a pocket watch that was not resting in his robe.

"Ten to seven," Watson answered calmly, and Holmes calmed slightly himself when he realized there were hours yet before their meeting.

"Ah good," he said, taking a sip of his drink and determinedly not looking towards his pipe, "Perhaps..."  But Watson was spared hearing whatever insane action Holmes intended to inflict upon himself next by a short knock on the door.  Before Watson could do more than rise to open it, the door opened of its own accord and a man walked in.  Still mindful of the possibility of assassins, Watson moved in front of Holmes, hand reaching for a gun that was not there, while his eyes took in everything he could observe about the intruder.  He was not a tall man and did not appear exceptional strong, but that would hardly matter if he pulled a gun.  He had dark hair and a thin mustache and sharp cheekbones and there was something familiar about him that Watson could not quite place.

"It is considered impolite in most circles to barge into a room uninvited," Holmes pointed out, still sitting calmly though he leaned over a bit to see around Watson, at least for a moment, before leaning back in his seat again and taking a sip of coffee.

"I did knock first," the intruder pointed out.

"So you did," Holmes agreed, no longer even bothering to look in the man's direction, "You did not, however, wait for an answer.  My rooms back on Baker Street are unmolested, I trust?"

"I did not finish the job, if that's what you mean."  At that, Watson frowned, and felt even more keenly the loss of his gun.  His cane, of course, was in hand, but felt somewhat inadequate when the intruder seemed so confident.

"You can sit down, Watson," Holmes commented, voice completely unperturbed if slightly raspy, "I am almost certain Miss Adler is not our arsonist or assassin.  If anything, she is a target."

"Miss Adler!" Watson cried, looking closer at their intruder and finally seeing behind the mustache, clothes, and hair.  She inclined her head to them and Watson slowly relaxed his defensive pose, moving back to his seat as Holmes had suggested though he didn't sit down.  Irene Adler continued to stand as well, looking Holmes over with a slight frown upon her face.  She didn't ask any questions, however; perhaps she already knew all that had befallen them.

"You got my message, then?" Holmes asked after the silence had gone on for some time.

"You sent her a message?  When did you send her a message?  I didn't even know she was in London," Watson said, feeling even more unsettled than usual at being left in the dark surrounding Holmes's antics.  

"My dear fellow, I myself told you she had stopped by, the very night of the...unfortunate happenings," Holmes pointed out, calm and rational.

"You mean your almost dying," Watson demanded and noted the way Holmes squired slightly despite doing his best to appear unaffected.

"Quite right," he said quickly, "And as to contacting her, I left her a note in our rooms, knowing of course that when she heard of the fire she would investigate...though I couldn't have hoped for her to be so prompt about it."

"And if the assassin had read the note?" Watson asked, both admiring and exasperated, "I assume the message was in code?"

"Of course," Holmes answered, "And now, we really should prepare for that meeting with our countess."

"Come now, Sherlock, you called me here," Adler said, "Aren't you going to tell me what it is all about?  What's this about you almost dying?"

"Ah, of course," Holmes answered, "I called you here merely to mention that you are in danger.  A murderer seems bent on destroying all evidence surrounding Rudolf, and that would most definitely include you."

"Holmes was poisoned," Watson added, ignoring the look Holmes sent towards him, "Taxine poison from a Yew plant.  It was quite close; a maid did die of it when she ate the portion meant for me."

"And Gladstone...when he ate what was meant for me," Holmes added, his voice so soft they weren't completely sure it was said to them.

"But wouldn't it have been bitter?" Adler asked, sounding surprised, and Holmes very deliberately did not glare or appear offended.

"I may have accused Nanny of poison before," he answered haughtily, "but bitterness in her cooking is not generally a sign that she has actually acted upon my accusations."

"She is a bad cook?" Adler asked.

"She is a great cook," Watson was quick to say, though Holmes added, "When she is not displeased." 

Adler studied both men carefully, Holmes more so than Watson, before she sat herself down in a vacant seat.  Watson sat down slowly as well.

“And do you have any ideas about this murderer?" Adler asked, "Surely you have some lead, if you believe me to be in danger."

"We have been busy," Watson pointed out.

"I have suspicions," Holmes said, "But nothing certain.  We are meeting with the prince's sister later this morning; it is she that suggested a connection between the attempts and yourself."

"Perhaps you should come," Watson suggested, "You may remember something that we would be unaware of."  He half expected Holmes to disagree with him, knowing as he did his often contradictory response to the lady's presence, but he did nothing of the kind.

"In disguise, perhaps," Holmes suggested instead, "I'm afraid Lestrade also learned of our plans to meet despite our attempts to dissuade him.  I was not...completely on top of my game last night."

"I'm not sure it would be a bad thing to have the inspector there," Watson pointed out, "He is not a bad man."

"No, I suppose he isn't," Holmes agreed but with a tone that indicated the opposite, before turning to Irene and saying, "Did you find much trouble getting by Scotland Yard's finest to get to get into my rooms?"

"Really, Sherlock, is that any question to ask a lady?" she asked with a somewhat suggestive tone, to which Holmes merely looked at her, almost managing not to look completely baffled, until she gave a sigh and continued, "They guarded the ground quite well."

"And so you came in from the roof," Holmes concluded, sounding far too satisfied considering his rooms had been broken into by a woman who would probably be quite capable of robbing him blind.  Irene Adler didn't even bother to confirm it, instead looking down to study their breakfast.

"Should you be eating untested food, considering?" she asked, and Watson felt suddenly queasy; despite everything it hadn't even occurred to him to question his breakfast, but Holmes appeared entirely dismissive of the question.

"Every indication points to our murderer being quite clumsy in attempts," he said, "Even if our resting place were discovered, he would need a great deal of luck, I think, to manage to contaminate our food.  And I tasted nothing distressing."

"He managed to insert poison into our very house, into Mrs. Hudson's food!" Watson exclaimed, still eying his empty plate with some consternation, though Holmes very deliberately took a bite of what must have been ice cold eggs by that point.  Frowning at Holmes's display and fear still coiled in his chest, Watson said "He seems quite resourceful to me."  At that, Holmes looked a bit puzzled.

"It was the maid that added the poison," he answered, "Surely you realized?  You said it yourself, it had to be an inside job."


	10. Chapter 10

“Holmes!  You can’t mean to say you believe Miss Barbara Worth responsible!”  Holmes continued to look genuinely baffled at his friend’s astonishment, as though it hadn’t even occurred to him that this wasn’t common knowledge.

“Who else could have?” he asked, “Really, Watson, I’ve told you this before.  Remove the impossible, and whatever left…”

“But it is impossible!  I know her, Holmes, you know her; she has been living in our household for months!”

“Nearly six months, come next week,” Holmes answered, “And one month after the world became privy to Miss Adler’s affair.”  He nodded his head towards the woman in question who was watching them silently with a look of keen interest in her eyes.  Watson still shook his head.

“You didn’t see her, Holmes.  She was quite upset over the events, near hysterical...”

“Look at the facts, Watson.  She appears, with very convenient timing, shortly after the very story which apparently sent our countess to see us.  She comes from Austria…”

“Germany.”

“…Austria, and has apparently been lying about her origins.  The day the soup was poisoned, very careful arrangements were made so that we should be the only ones to eat it, arrangements which had to be made by someone very close to the household; who better than one of the maids?  And when the wrong persons die, she is horrified and hysterical, as you said.  Quite a shock, I imagine, after she worked so carefully to prevent it.”

Watson sighed, not quite convinced but ready to see the possibility that Holmes was right.  He very often was.  It was simply near impossible to imagine the young woman he had so often talked to, had seen about the house, as someone who tried to kill him.  On the other hand, it was slightly easier to imagine her trying to kill Holmes.  And then again, they still weren’t completely sure the assassin had tried to kill Watson, whether his being called away was a fortunate mistake or contrived.

“Holmes, if you are so sure of the assassin’s identity, why did you not say something before?”

“I thought everyone knew,” he answered, still looking far more puzzled than was normal.  Adler’s expression had changed from interest to worry, though subtly.  Mostly she seemed content to remain silent and observe.

“If we knew, why would we be speculating over this?” Watson asked, feeling worried himself for his friend.  It was obvious that, despite Holmes’s attempts to appear perfectly well, if a bit haggard, he was not near to being himself yet.

“Because she isn’t important,” Holmes answered, “She is the weapon, not the true assassin.  It is the man behind this we want, not the maid who bungled carrying it out.”

“And how do you know it is a man?” Adler asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Ah,” Holmes answered, eyeing Irene for a moment as he considered his answer, before smiling enigmatically, “Now that is some reasoning which I am not yet ready to reveal.  In due time.”

And that sounded more like the Holmes Watson knew.

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

The meeting took place, once again, in the kitchen back at Baker Street.  The house already looked slightly better as repair men had come the day before under Mrs. Hudson’s supervision, aided by the men Lestrade had left.  Whatever their suspicions, the repairmen had done little more than remove the ruined staircase, set up a temporary set of steps, and taken care of some of the downstairs smoke damage, none showing the slightest bit of curiosity for the upstairs.  Despite this, and the airing Mrs. Hudson had given to the house, it still smelled of smoke and set Holmes off coughing the moment he stepped through the door.  Watson’s suggestion that they meet somewhere else was ignored.  It was the smell, now, rather than damage that drove them back into the kitchen.  There were, however, more chairs dragged in and arranged, and as Holmes insisted he was now well enough to sit up, there was no need to raid the chairs for their cushions.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them when they arrived and had already prepared a tray of food.  Holmes had gone pale with coughing and didn’t look at all interested in anything other than the tea, which he snatched up quickly.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson said before taking his own, at which Holmes mumbled something that might have been the same into his cup.

Lestrade showed up only five minutes after they did, and at least half an hour early for the meeting.  Watson greeted him as well and then floundered a bit when it came to introducing Irene Adler.

“Irvin Handler,” Holmes said, before Watson could decide anything or Irene could step in herself, “This is Inspector Lestrade.  Inspector, meet Irvin Handler.”  He didn’t offer any explanation as to why Mr. Handler might be there, and only escaped seeming exceedingly rude by virtue of having the appearance of a man on his death bed.  Watson decided to leave it at that despite the inspector’s obvious curiosity and Lestrade didn’t quite dare ask too many questions, being afraid he would be thrown out before Marie Louise arrived.  Irene greeted the inspector easily enough and they settled down to wait on their new client.  They didn’t have to wait too long.

Marie Louise arrived five minutes early.  All the men, including Irene, came to their feet to greet her.  Even Holmes afforded her the courtesy, though he sat down quickly again after while Watson showed her to her chair.  She greeted them politely in turn, looking at Irene Adler with curiosity and some slight confusion.

“Ah, this is Mr. Irvin Handler,” Holmes said, “An old acquaintance of your brother who may be of assistance.”  At that, Marie’s eyes narrowed and she looked more closely upon her.  If she did recognize her, however, she gave no sign.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, when all the necessary things had been done for politeness’s sake before they could begin, “I’m not quite sure where we should start.  I had hoped to keep a discrete council.”

“And you find our kitchen overcrowded?” Holmes asked, a small smile gracing his lips.

“I’m sure they are all friends, of course…” she suggested, though it was quite clear none the less that she would prefer them gone.

“I can assure you, er…Countess…” Lestrade said, still stumbling slightly over what to call her, “You need not worry for Scotland Yard’s discretion in the matter.  But I’m afraid a very real crime has been committed, and I can’t simply let it go.”

“Holmes has told me he believes he knows who poisoned the poor maid,” Watson remembered suddenly to mention, causing more than one head to spin to look at where Holmes was lounging back in his seat, eyes closed.

“How could he possibly?” Lestrade demanded, “He was asleep through most of it!”

“Tell him, Holmes,” Watson prodded, and Holmes jerked slightly as though coming awake.  Watson was not entirely certain whether this was part of his dramatics or if he had, indeed, been falling asleep, but he did seem on top of the conversation for he quickly answered.

“I believe if you were to call upon Miss Barbara Worth, you would find her missing,” he said, causing both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to start.

“You believe the maid did it?!” Lestrade exclaimed, “Ridiculous!  I pride myself on reading people, Mr. Holmes, and she had not the heart of a cold blooded murderer.”

“Perhaps not,” Holmes agreed, “Nonetheless, it was she who poisoned the soup, and it was she who attempted to be sure none but Watson and myself would eat it.  Whether she knew it was a deadly poison or thought it a harmless prank remains to be seen.”

“I never did think she could do it!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, “The worst trouble I ever had with her was that young man of hers coming around.”  At that, Holmes opened his eyes and turned to face his landlady.

“Tell me everything about this young man,” he insisted, staring intently so that Mrs. Hudson looked flustered.

“A blond haired man,” she answered, fidgeting slightly at finding everyone’s attention on her, “Not a very big build but not too small either.  I didn’t really get a good look; he never came to the house but he would often hang about for Miss Worth.  I had words with her about him.  You don’t think…?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  And now, Mrs. Marie Louise…I’m afraid all these secrets will get us nowhere.  Everybody in this room has my absolute trust…in their discretion, in this case, at any rate.  Please, allow us to speak freely.”  The lady looked hesitant, obviously not caring to give up her anonymous state, but in the end she seemed to give in.

“Very well,” she said, “If you all will swear to not reveal me or my case to anyone…I trust you will offer me the same service as my brother, Doctor, should my case ever make it to print?”

“Of course,” Watson answered, and everyone else was quick to assure her they wouldn’t tell another soul whatever she said.

“Then I suppose I must begin by offering my true name.  It is Gisela Louise Marie, Princess Imperial and Archduchess of Austria, Princess of Hungary and Bohemia, Princess of Bavaria.”

Only Lestrade was truly surprised at the titles, but to hear them spoken there, in the makeshift sitting room of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, it still sounded startling.  Lestrade looked like he didn’t know whether he should leap to his feet, bow, or simply sit and listen to her tale as he would any woman who carried a case before him.

“My brother, as most of you well know, is the late Rudolf Franz Karl Joseph, once crown prince of Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia.  He came to this house to meet with you, Mr. Holmes, some three years ago over a matter of a photograph held by Miss Irene Adler.”  Her eyes darted, briefly but tellingly, towards the disguised Irene.  “I was close to my brother.  I am well aware of exactly what was in that photo, and why he was so eager to retrieve it.”

“The photo of himself with Irene Adler!” Lestrade said, at which Holmes, who had given every appearance of having fallen asleep after he got the self proclaimed princess to speak, laughed out loud.  Lestrade looked rather disgruntled, but Holmes explained nothing, lounging with his eyes closed and a slight smile still.

“In a manner of speaking,” Gisela Louise Marie answered, looking not quite pleased with Holmes’s laughter herself, or the half smile Irene was now sporting.  “The photo was not retrieved, but when my brother returned he was no longer worried about it causing an incident.  Of course, everyone at court was well aware of my brother’s…tendencies…to a certain extent.  And then, a year later came the incidents of Mayerling Lodge where my brother died.  You are familiar with this affair?”

“I followed it in the papers,” Holmes answered, “But please, give us your perspective of the events as they took place…if it’s not too painful?”

“No…no, it was two years ago now,” she answered, though the way her hands clutched at her own skirt and her face paled, she seemed quite affected.  Nonetheless, she began her story.

“Rudolf was a married man, but not happily.  He was known to seek elsewhere for his happiness.  One woman, in particular, the Baroness Marie Vetsera had his attention, though she was near half his age.  Miss Marie and my brother were staying at Mayerling Lodge the day they died.  It was said to be a suicide, that they would rather die than be parted.  That my brother shot Marie and then himself, leaving only a note to his wife.”

“So I read in the reports of the papers,” Holmes commented, “And what are your insights on the matter?”

“At first I was shocked.  I did not want to believe it of my brother, but I was too distressed to think clearly.  After some time, more and more things made no sense.  There was no reason for suicide, for no one was going to split them up, no matter what gossip has said!  And then…then there is the matter of his gun.  It was said to have fired six shots…but no one can account for the number of bullets.”

“You believe they were murdered,” Holmes suggested.

“My brother had many enemies,” she answered, “For reasons of politics, mostly, as well as his personal inclinations…and he had a tendency to fall in love far too easily.”

“You think a past lover?”

“At this point, I do not know what to think.  All I know, is that he had no reason to kill himself.”

“Well.  The assassin attempts certainly agree with you.”  There was silence as all considered the case before them.  Finally, Lestrade decided to settle the one bit he felt capable in grasping.

“I suppose what we need, is to question that maid.”  When Holmes made no sound to contradict him, he continued to say, “I may not know all the story here, but as I see it, someone either thinks Mr. Holmes knows something, or his reputation has grown so great they fear he will know something in the end, and so sought to put a permanent stop to him and Doctor Watson.

“We think the fire might have been an attempt to destroy our old notes,” Watson added, and Lestrade nodded his head as though that proved everything.

“So this maid tries to kill you, and when that doesn’t work, they try the fire.  Of course, they must realize you are still here, and will try again…”  Everyone turned inadvertently to look at Holmes, as though half expecting him to be shot down at any moment.  He sat quite still and seemingly undisturbed by their talk, however, eyes closed in deep contemplation.

“Rudolf always did get himself into trouble with lovers,” Irene remarked, “I was quite tempted to take a stab at him myself once, though I’m not so prone to violence.”

“You?” Lestrade asked, sounding quite confused as he looked her over, “Did he steal your girl?”

“If you prefer to say it like that,” she answered with a brief laugh, “Two men and a lady were involved in it anyhow.”  Lestrade looked even more confused at that.  Gisela Louise Marie sat up primly and didn’t look at either of them.

“Alright, Mr. Holmes.  You have heard the case.  Do you have any ideas?” she asked.  Holmes didn’t answer.

“Holmes?” Watson asked, leaning closer, frowning, then shaking his head.  Still sitting up in his chair, positioned in his thinking pose, Holmes had fallen asleep.  Watson whispered as much to the others, giving his sternest doctor look to warn against waking him.

“I will find the maid,” Lestrade decided, “And we’ll make sure to keep you two well guarded.  If you like, I can offer the same to you, er, Madam.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” she said, “But I have my own protection.”  It was at that moment they heard a loud noise coming from the street.


	11. Chapter 11

Surprisingly, Holmes did not start awake, though everyone else leapt to their feet.  Lestrade and Adler made it to the door ahead of Watson whose first instinct was to his patient.  He didn’t know whether to be concerned or relieved that Holmes continued to sleep, oblivious of the commotion in the street.  Gisela Louise Marie held back with Mrs. Hudson, but neither was inclined to hide in the kitchen while the men took care of the ruckus.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lestrade demanded as he strode out in the lead.  The sight that met him was not the drama they feared or hoped for but could only be described as comedy; the two men he had left out the front door were  crumbled in an ungainly heap, limbs hopelessly entangled, while a third man who Lestrade did not recognize attempted to restrain the one responsible.  This might have been an alarming or promising development, if the miscreant weren’t severely shorter than the assassin Lestrade hoped to capture.  It wasn’t even the maid Holmes had so recently pointed the finger at.

“Who are you, sir, and why are you detaining that boy?” Lestrade continued, after turning a severe glare on his own men as they attempted to detangle and stand.

“Hey, let me go!” the child yelled in a distinctly gutter accent while squirming wildly within the man’s arms, “I’m on business for Mr. Holmes, I am!  I’m to report to him!”

“Sorry sir,” the man holding him answered, his accent similar to the princess housed within, “My mistress bid me watch the house.  This one was snooping around, trying to get in.”

“Peter!” Adler exclaimed, winding out from behind Lestrade and ignoring the squirming child as she took in the man, “It has been a long time.”  He looked at her, no less confused than Lestrade felt at the predatory shake of Irene’s trouser-encompassed hips.  The child gave one last good squirm and managed to use the man’s distraction to slip free.  He didn’t run, however, but dusted himself off with an indignant flair before standing himself up before the inspector.  Lestrade’s eyes were still on Adler and didn’t even notice.

“There is something very odd about that man,” he murmured, beginning to feel uncomfortable as she continued to talk to Peter, who was looking a bit flushed himself.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” the boy said with a smirk from the vicinity of his chest.  With a growl of annoyance, Lestrade snatched for his arm, but the boy easily slid away only to come to a stop again in front of Watson, who was blocking the door.

“That’s quite enough,” Watson told him firmly, “Now step in here and leave them to their duty; they don’t need distractions.”  The boy did look contrite at last, mumbling ‘sorry, Doctor’, as he meekly stepped into the house.

Seeing that Watson seemed to know the boy and had some control of the matter, Lestrade took the time to reprimand his men and look suspiciously at the stranger and Adler before going back inside himself.  Adler followed more slowly; the stranger Peter did not.

“So you see, we was to keep an eye on things, and pass her on if she came by,” the boy was saying as he walked in, in a hushed tone.  The entranceway had grown crowded as soon everyone except Holmes were standing in it, Watson and Mrs. Hudson guarding the way back to the kitchen fiercely between them.

“Secret message left, indeed,” Watson muttered, “I knew he wouldn’t have left it all in a note.”

“Oh, the note was there,” Adler remarked as she entered after Lestrade, “Just not the address.”  Lestrade jumped and scooted away, bringing him closer to where Gisela stood silent but watching all happenings with a keen sharpness.  Watson gave Adler a pointed glare to lower her voice.

“Well, I did see some snoop come round,” the boy continued, “Three times we seen him bout the place.  And I’m to say what I seen to Mr. Holmes, he said.  Is he really bad off, Doctor?  He was all pale and trembly when I saw him last.”  The boy looked at Watson with wide, worried eyes, an expression that transformed his youthful face from that of street smart ruffian to scared child.

“Don’t worry about it,” Watson answered with a gentle smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “We’re taking good care of him.  He’ll be up and ordering you lads about in no time.”  The boy didn’t look convinced, his eyes moving to try and see around Watson towards the kitchen.  “He just needs sleep,” Watson said then, pointedly, before trying to turn the conversation back on track.  “What’s this about a snoop?”

“A tricky fellow, came around more than once I know, and three I saw myself.  He changed his hair, first brown then blond.  But you could see he was the same, he wasn’t half so good as Mr. Holmes with his disguise.  Like a changing color’s enough to fool anyone!”  Lestrade made a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat, probably because his own men didn’t notice anything of the kind.  The boy glanced at him and said, “He never came up to the house, but he’d walk by all the same.  We had the whole lot of us on this case, ‘cept those round your hotel, Doctor.”

“Holmes asked you to watch our hotel?” Watson asked, seeing the prudence in that but surprised all the same.  This was dangerous business, someone was already dead, and standing guard was a bit different than keeping watch on things.  The boy, for his part, avoided looking Watson in the eye.

“Not exactly,” he answered towards the remains of the carpet, “Just…I’m not stupid, Doctor!  He almost died, you could see it, and you were coughing and he near fainted, and you all could’ve died!”  His face became quite fierce then, even dangerous.  “We’re not letting them get at you again.”

“Wiggins,” Watson said, his voice stern as he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “You are not to put yourselves in danger.  It is not your job to keep us safe.”

“Yessir,” the boy mumbled through the rebellious tilt in his shoulders.  Watson sighed.

“We can’t be worrying about what you are doing,” Watson instructed him, voice still stern, “We can’t afford the distraction.”

“Yessir,” he repeated, this time appearing more defeated, and Watson squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before releasing it.

“Now,” Watson said in a forcedly lighter tone, “Tell us everything you’ve gathered for Mr. Holmes.”  At that the boy relaxed even more, taking on a prouder stance.

“As I said, we saw this man snooping, looking round the house without seeming to look.  Nothing remarkable about him; just a bit shorter than yourself.  Hair changed, like I said, brown or blond.  The brown hair’s longer, a wig if ever I saw one, but the blond could be his own.  He never changed his face, though he had a beard once.  His clothes changed too, sometimes dirty, sometimes clean.  Mr. Holmes would have something to say on the mud; I took special note.  Nice or ragged, his shoes always had a bit of mud on ‘em, that’s all I know of it, though.”

“Did you hear him speak?” Watson asked.

“Just once, when Johnny ran into him, stepped right on his toe; man said a lot then, not fit to repeat before a lady.  Some of it not in English; he sounded a lot like that guy outside who stopped me, in fact.”

“And did he, er, drop anything, when Johnnie ran into him?” Watson asked.  Wiggin’s eyes darted briefly towards the inspector but he dutifully answered, “nothing to note.”  Which probably meant money but no wallet.

“So this is it?” Lestrade demanded from where he stood taking notes, “A man who walked by a couple of times and ‘snooped’?”

“Well what have you got?” Wiggins asked right back, “He walked right by you lot and you let him by.”

“Thank you, Wiggins,” Watson said, taking some coins out, “You have been a great help.  I’m sure Holmes would be pleased.”

“I’ve got more than that,” Wiggins said, standing even taller and addressing Watson more than Lestrade, “We followed him back to his lair, once we marked him as no good.  And what’s more, you’ll never guess the girl he’s staying with!”

With a slightly defeated air, realizing Holmes was once again going to be proven right, he said, “The maid Barbara Worth.”  Wiggins instantly looked so disappointed that Watson felt bad for taking his reveal.

“Yeah, we all knew her right off.  Must have been sweethearts, I’d guess.”  His eyes narrowed venomously, and the words muttered after did not take into account the presence of ladies.  Watson merely frowned; Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, gave him a swat to the head and an admonishment to mind his language.  Gisela didn’t appear put out, however, just as she didn’t appear disinclined to stand in the entranceway and attend to the audience of a street boy.

“We stayed back, like Mr. Holmes always says,” Wiggins was quick to assure the doctor while absentmindedly rubbing at where Mrs. Hudson’s hand had fallen.

“And you can take us there?” Lestrade demanded.  At Wiggin’s affirmative, the inspector puffed up importantly and ran out to start issuing orders.

“There, your highness, perhaps we can have this settled soon,” Watson suggested hopefully, though he was feeling a bit torn himself.  He wanted to hunt down those who had almost killed Holmes; a dark, deeply buried part of himself wanted to wring their necks and watch them choke, just as he had watched Holmes choke on the smoke, on the poison, to see their lips turn blue and their heart seem to cease completely beneath his hand, weak and stuttering…he shuddered and forced such thoughts away.  And at the same time he wanted to stay there, at Holmes’s side, to watch over him and keep him away from all the danger.  In the end, there was no real decision to be made.  He was a doctor.  Justice should be left to the likes of Lestrade.

Feeling tight and anxious, Watson turned away from the others and slipped past Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen to check on Holmes.  He was, miracle of miracles, still sleeping, his breath slightly wheezing but not enough to cause alarm.  He was lain out as Watson had put him over several chairs and did not stir when Watson put his fingers to find his pulse.

It was not the strong heartbeat of a healthy man, but it was not shuddering faint and fleeting beneath his fingers either.  It was there.  For now, that was enough.

Watson let him sleep, gently pressing back the hair at his forehead under the pretext of checking his temperature, and wondered exactly how angry Holmes was going to be when he woke up and realized they had gone to apprehend the criminals without him.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock Holmes startled awake to the sound of his own rough cough and very nearly fell out of his impromptu bed.  He sat up slowly, not entirely inclined to be awake at all but unable to stop his mind from piecing together bits and fragments of the world around him.  This would not have been such an inconvenience if his mind felt up to its usual speed of processing such tidbits.  He was able to deduce that he had fallen asleep sitting up, and that Watson had laid him out, but further deduction escaped him despite the influx of data, most probably because his attention had turned further inwards to the fact that his lungs seemed to have decided to stop working.

Not entirely, and not nearly so sever as a bout of pneumonia he had suffered in his youth, but there was a decided struggle to breathe where normally there would be none which led to coughing, and each cough burned his lungs and throat and made him gasp all the more.  He could breathe, but it felt as though he couldn’t, and awakening to such an uncomfortable sensation left him in a state of panic.  The data of the world around him, on top of that, was far too much for any man to take in.  So he didn’t.

He did manage to deduce, in the middle of all this, that he might be ill.

When he did become aware once more of the world around him, it began with the feel of warm hands propping him up and a familiar voice in his ear.  The voice brought comfort even before the words penetrated his brain, and he slowly relaxed and realized that he could breathe, after all.

“Hey, come now, easy,” the voice murmured, “There you go, in and out.” 

“Watson?” Holmes rasped, and a cold glass was brought to his lips.  Holmes took hold of the glass himself though Watson never let go as he swallowed the blessedly cool water.  Then something else was offered, something which decidedly did not smell pleasant, and Holmes turned his head away.

“Come on, old boy,” Watson instructed sternly.  Then when Holmes opened his mouth to say something along the lines of ‘don’t want it’, except in a way which didn’t make him sound like a sulking five year old, Watson made the entire point moot by pouring it down his throat.  It burned unpleasantly and tasted even worse, but Watson offered more water immediately afterwards.

“Watson,” Holmes announced with all the severity of a drowned kitten, “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”

“Oh?” Watson asked, gently re-arranging the pillows so that Holmes could lie back, “I thought you’d prefer something to soothe that cough.  Perhaps I was mistaken.”  Pillows arranged, his hand now went to Holmes’s forehead, expertly dodging the hand that came to swipe it away.  He took his pulse next, at which point Holmes had given up and merely looked on with an impatient air as he submitted himself to Watson’s investigation.  The stethoscope came out next, which brought out a put upon frown on his patient’s face, but the expression was wasted as Watson’s attention was on the inside of Holmes’s body rather than the outside.

“Well?” Holmes rasped after he seemed to be done, “Prognosis, Doctor?”  Watson stood up, frowning slightly.

“I don’t like the sound of your breathing,” he answered, “We really should…”

“No doctors, no hospitals, no beds,” Holmes announced, “We have work, do we not...” but he trailed off in the middle of his impassioned speech, and not only because he broke into another coughing fit.  He was looking around, letting the room speak to him this time.  Watson could read his confusion, slight though it showed in his face, before he turned to face the doctor again.  “Watson, weren’t there others here before?” he asked.

“There were,” Watson answered, but offered nothing, though the concern on his face grew sharper, “Holmes, I really think…”

“Where have they gone?”

“You are ill, Holmes.  You need rest; you could do permanent damage to your lungs you know; smoke inhalation is not a thing to ignore, especially when you were already compromised…”

“You breathed in just as much, more if I remember right,” Holmes answered, “Where are they?”

“And if you’ll notice, I don’t sound like a bellows when I breathe,” Watson answered, “Your condition hasn’t improved, if anything it’s gotten worse.  You need to see…”

“Your voice still has a rasp to it,” Holmes cut him off, “And you look too pale.  Perhaps you should be drinking your own medicine, Doctor.”

“Holmes!  This is serious!  I should have let them take you after the fire with Dr. Reid.”

“Nonsense,” he answered, “Now, tell me what has happened and where everyone has gone, and then I might be able to lie quiet like a good little invalid.”

Finally, Watson gave in, though he knew better than to think Holmes would hear him out then say ‘thank you’ and go back to sleep.  “Wiggins came to inform you of a man creeping about the house.  From the sound of it, it is the same man Mrs. Hudson saw hanging around for Miss Barbara Worth.  The boy saw her as well; he’s leading Lestrade and the others there now.”  Then he waited wearily for the outburst.  To his surprise, Holmes remained quite calm as he considered this information.

“And you didn’t wish to go with them?” he asked.

“I have a patient,” Watson answered.  Holmes studied him and his weary demeanor.  Watson didn’t look as though he’d have been up to much even without his patient, though Holmes knew from experience that Watson would have managed quite well on adrenalin and determination alone.  That he had refrained from going after a man who had gone after them personally, a man who might have caused the murder of them both, spoke volumes.

“Did I scare you that badly?” Holmes asked.  Watson looked startled and Holmes felt his lips curling upwards.  He always did enjoy surprising Watson.  Watson couldn’t resist smiling lightly in return, though his eyes remained far too weary.

“More than you’ll ever know,” he answered.  Neither spoke for a long moment, the only sound from the light rasp of Holmes’s breath.

“Well,” Holmes said at last, “As it appears far too late to join the chase, I suppose we will just have to see how Lestrade has managed.”

“You’ll go to a doctor afterwards?” Watson asked, his tone pleading.  Holmes frowned, but held back from saying the obvious, that Watson was a doctor.  Instead, he finally nodded his head.  At that, a good deal of tension drained from Watson’s face.

It was at that moment that the knock came at the door.

“Perhaps that will be the triumphant return of our inspector,” Holmes suggested, his tone implying he expected nothing near so triumphant.  They heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door.  And then she screamed.  Holmes and Watson moved quickly to go to her when she was marched in to meet them, a man holding her from behind with a gun to her head.

For one brief instance all time seemed to freeze.  On the one side the two men stood, perched for action but impotent to help, and on the other the blond haired stranger who could only be the very assassin Lestrade had gone to apprehend, holding Mrs. Hudson’s life in his hands.

Then Holmes sat down very suddenly, looking excessively pale.

“Gentlemen,” the stranger announced with a distinct Germanic accent, before turning his attention to where Holmes sat, pale and trembling and looking ill enough to faint at any moment.  “I want you to tie up the good doctor,” the man instructed, and he somehow managed to grab a bundle of rope coiled at his side without letting go of Mrs. Hudson or dropping the gun, and tossed it over to the detective.  “Good and tight.”

Holmes stared at the coil of rope with a blank expression.  Watson kept his attention divided between the man with the gun and how very unwell Holmes looked.  His illness had come on so suddenly that Watson suspected, hoped, that it was merely a ruse, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” the man ordered, “Or I shoot your landlady and then the doctor.”  Slowly, Holmes’s hands reached out and took the rope, pausing in the middle for a sudden coughing fit.  Watson was almost certain that wasn’t feigned, and his concern increased.  When Holmes moved to bind Watson’s hands, hiding the actual action with his body, the stranger made them move around so that he could see every twist of the rope.

“I will know if you try to make a trick knot,” he told them, “Try anything, and the doctor will last for hours before his last breath.”  Holmes’s already pale face seemed to pale even more.  When he was finished, doing a very thorough job at the gunman’s insistence, Watson knew he wasn’t going to get free anytime soon.  The stranger studied the work with his eyes before nodding and suddenly throwing Mrs. Hudson towards them.  Holmes made an effort to catch her that sent them both to the floor and left him gasping for breath.

“Now…Mrs. Hudson is it?  Yes, I have read the doctor’s little stories…now, bind Mr. Holmes' hands.  And make a good job of it.”  And he still had the gun trained on them.  He tossed them a second coil of rope.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson was saying as she took the rope, looking rather tearful, “I should have looked better before I opened the door!”  And despite the man with the gun, she still looked to Holmes for permission before she started to bind him.

Perhaps because the two of them together looked less harmless than the doctor, but he did not fuss nearly so much over Holmes’s binds, though he did occasionally order Mrs. Hudson to make a knot tighter.  When both Holmes and Watson were tied up, the man came up to Mrs. Hudson and suddenly held a cloth to her nose and mouth.  Within seconds she slumped bonelessly into his arms.  He held the cloth a while longer before dragging her into the closet.  He pulled a few heavy bits of furniture before the door and then at last faced Watson and Holmes.

He still had the gun but did not seem very concerned about holding it on either of them in particular.

“Well,” he said, “And here is the great detective and his loyal doctor.  Do you want to know how easily I managed?  Your policeman friend and all those useless men he had had standing guard outside this house are now chasing uselessly after my sister and a few hired men.  They will be at it for hours yet, perhaps.”

“Very nice,” Holmes said, his voice raspy and weak, “But why have you come to us.  What are you looking for?”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes,” the man answered, “You see the game very quickly.  We will leave Doctor Watson here tied to his chair, and you will find me certain…bits of evidence.  I will leave and you will live.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Holmes answered with a brief, humorless laugh, “You think we know something that could destroy you.  You came here to destroy evidence.  You won’t leave us alive.”

At that the man’s almost pleasant expression transformed into a cruel snarl and he reached down and yanked Holmes to his feet by the cloth about his neck.  Holmes teetered unsteadily, but managed to find his balance, though he gasped slightly at the rough treatment.  The stranger turned his gun on Watson.

“Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t,” the man snarled, “But I can make death very slow if I want to.  You will watch the doctor beg to die before the end!”  And he looked as though he intended to shoot Watson right then and there.

“Wait!” Holmes gasped out, “Wait…I will do as you say.”  And while Watson continued to struggle uselessly at his rope, the man led Holmes up the stairs and out of sight.


	13. Chapter 13

Holmes moved as slowly as he dared, his normally astute mind working furiously but sluggishly to find a solution.  Perhaps if he rushed the man, pushing him down the stairs or out the window?  That would most certainly end in himself being shot or dragged down with him, but it should at least spare Watson and Mrs. Hudson a similar fate.  He toyed with the idea as he coughed and stumbled, wondering if he had the strength to even carry it out, and whether Watson would be too very cross with him if he did.

He decided to hold off on rash movements for the moment, his curiosity playing at him to ride this development to its conclusion.  Let the man find what he came for first, or at the least let him tell Holmes what he wanted; that would answer many questions, though it was a dangerous game.  Once he had what he came for, he wouldn’t need Holmes anymore.

“Well?  Come on!” the blond man growled, his hands twisting Holmes’s bound arm cruelly as he grew impatient with his pace and half dragged him into the sitting room.  The man had suspicious eyes, not trusting Holmes’s coughing fit in the least.  For once, Watson’s writing and his own reputation would work against him here.  The man knew he wasn’t harmless as he tried to pretend.  The real difficulty was that his weakness was only half feigned.

“Well?” the man said again, pushing him forward so roughly that his feet couldn’t keep up and he fell crashing to the ground, only just managing to twist his body to avoid smashing his nose on the edge of a table.  It still clipped his head and for a moment everything was ringing and confusion and pain.  Then it sharpened again, sharper than before, his adrenalin pumping.  The blond man glared at him, but for the first time Holmes noticed something like fear in his gaze, a manic sort of fear.  He wasn’t afraid of Holmes, though.  It must be the situation itself, the one he wished to hide about Prince Rudolf.

“You must get it for me!” he exclaimed, “You must!  Or your lover downstairs will pay dearly!”

Holmes stared at him, his eyes betraying nothing but a slightly fevered gleam.  The stare seemed to make the blond man more manic than ever.

“Stop it!  Stop analyzing me!  I will shoot the doctor!”  He lashed out with a foot and Holmes rolled away, breaking into another wheezing coughing fit.  Carefully he sat up, no mean feat when his arms were bound as they were, and he turned his eyes back up at the blond man.  His side was throbbing, either from the fall or the foot connecting, but it was a distant pain and he ignored it for the moment.

“Sir,” he said, “If you wish me to fetch something for you, I must first know what it is.”

“You know what I want!” he exclaimed, “Your doctor spoke of it in the story!  Where is the photo?!”

“You mean the photo that Miss Irene Adler held?” Holmes asked, eyebrow raised, “If you have read the story you must know it has already been destroyed.”

“Lies,” the man growled, “the story was full of cover ups.  I’ll want your case notes as well, of course.”

“My colleague does not lie,” Holmes answered, as haughtily as one can from a position of sitting on the floor with ones arms and torso bound tightly in rope, “He alters truths to protect the virtue of our clients, but he does not lie.  The photo was destroyed by Miss Adler.”

“He said you took a photo,” the man growled.  Despite the dark look in his eyes, Holmes was still not quite prepared for him to lash out again, sending him back to the floor.  Looming over him, the blond man placed one booted foot on his chest.  Holmes took the moment, as his head cleared once more, to take note of the mud that coated it while he struggled to get a proper breath.  The position and ropes did not help.

“Of Miss Adler,” he managed to wheeze out, “Took…of her…”

“You lie!  Why would someone like you need a woman’s picture?  Your friend was altering facts to suit once more!”  He was breathing hard, his boot resting heavily over his chest, when he suddenly moved away again, striding across the room to grab something from the mantle.

“Where did you get this!” he screamed, “Rudolf would never…you…this is mine.”  Holmes stared at the object in the man’s hands, and suddenly, finally, the clues fell into place.  At that moment, he heard a faint sound coming from below.  Quickly, he broke into a loud coughing fit that was unfortunately only half contrived.

The blond man marched back across the room, dragging him up from where he curled on the floor coughing and gasping for breath.  The gold snuff case was still clutched in his hand and his face was twisted into a mad snarl.  When Holmes managed to quiet his fit once again, all was silent below.

“The case notes and the photo, Mr. Holmes,” the man demanded.  Stumbling to keep his feet under him, Holmes managed to make his way to a table.  Grasping the photo at its edge was harder with his arms bound as they were, but it was worth it to be able to toss it over to the blond man.

“Your photo,” he said mockingly before moving over to a bookshelf.  He couldn’t manage, with his arms bound as they were to grab the bound copy of Watson’s work, so he merely gestured, saying, “And here are your case notes.  Watson’s work may be highly romanticized but I believe you will find all the pertinent facts there.”

“This is…this is not the photo,” the blond man said, and then, “Then it is true.  Miss Adler must still have it…I will indeed need to seek her out once I am done here…”

“It was destroyed, exactly as Watson described,” Holmes insisted, “You have gained nothing, coming after us.”

“I will not let you destroy his name,” the man answered.  He dropped the photo but kept the snuff case, slipping it into his pocket.  His hands free, he pulled out his gun.

“My good sir, if Watson did not see fit to destroy it before, what makes you think my successful deduction would lead to him doing it now?”

“You deduce nothing,” the man growled, his gun aimed towards Holmes as he started across the room for him.

“I know everything…Mr. Wolf.”  The man’s eyes widened dramatically.  And then everything happened very fast.

The blond man did not move, appearing frozen by Holmes’s great revelation.  Holmes lunged forward.  As did Watson from behind.  Lestrade and his officers ran into the room.  Then the blond man crumbled to the ground.  As did Holmes. And the sound of a single shot reverberated throughout the room.

**_Ten minutes earlier_ **

Watson struggled with his bindings, his heart hammering furiously in his chest as Holmes was half dragged up the stairs by a mad man wielding a gun.  Hundreds of worst case scenarios filled his head; Holmes could be sicker than he thought, Holmes could be getting ready for a particularly stupid maneuver, Holmes might not have any maneuver ready and this would end in all their deaths and the madman getting away…

Even though Holmes had managed to slip a knife up Watson’s sleeve while hiding the view with his body, all that meant at the moment to Watson was that Holmes was now definitely unarmed.  And it is harder than it sounds to get a knife out of one’s sleeve and into one’s hand without letting it drop to the floor, a motion that would be disastrous not least because Holmes had, at the madman’s instruction, tied Watson’s arms to the chair arms.

It seemed to take forever to manage it, and there was a dark moment when the knife fumbled before he managed to secure it with his thumb.  That he managed it by slicing his thumb with the blade was unfortunate.  Above him, he could hear Holmes coughing, a dreadful noise and one he was pretty sure was not feigned.  If only Lestrade would return now!  But even if he did, he was not likely to creep quietly into the house but to knock at the door, announcing his presence.  This situation was grim whichever way he looked at it.

He got the knife into position.  Struggling, and ignoring the blood slicking the ropes and knife from his thumb, he sawed at his bindings.  It was taking too long.  And then there came a noise at the door.

It was not the noise he had been waiting for; there was no knock.  The door was trying to open, quietly.  Unfortunately, the madman had had the presence of mind to lock it, or had made Mrs. Hudson lock it after letting him in.  There was a long moment of silence.  Then a louder crash from upstairs, more coughing and shouting.  Watson cut quicker at his binds, desperate to get to Holmes and sure that any second it would be the sound of a gunshot above.  He turned his head up, and then startled.  There was someone there.  A very small someone was creeping down the hallway, pausing at the door to the room where Holmes had been dragged.  Watson did not dare call out to the figure, but let out a sigh in relief when it turned away from the door and saw him.

In a moment, the figure was down the stairs, just as Watson managed to tear one hand free.

“Dr. Watson!” the figure hissed in a rushed whisper, “I knew it was trouble when it wasn’t our man we caught, and the maid wouldn’t talk, but there was the figure knocked over ‘fore the door, and they let me slip in the window and where’s Mr. Holmes?”  All the while, he helped Watson with the knots and soon he was free.

“To the door, let Lestrade and the others in, quickly,” Watson ordered in a whisper of his own, before bounding up the makeshift wooden planks to the second landing.  He grabbed his cane from the hallway on the way.

Holmes saw him the moment he slipped carefully into the room but made no sign of it to the madman facing the other way, marching towards Holmes with his gun trained on him.

“You deduce nothing,” the man growled, a sure sign that Holmes had been being his usual annoying self.  The blood was roaring in Watson’s ears, his eyes on the gun which was aimed at Holmes.

“I know everything,” Holmes answered, his voice loud enough to cover any inadvertent noise Watson might make, “Mr. Wolf!”

Watson struck, first with his cane at the gun and then using the knife handle to club the man over the head.  A shot rang out as he moved.  The madman crumbled to the floor.  But so did Holmes.  Watson stared, his heart feeling as though it had stopped, at the still form of his friend and the dark stain spread across his chest.

Lestrade ran into the room.  It was all over.


	14. Chapter 14

“Holmes!”  Dropping both knife and cane, Watson stepped over the downed villain and stumbled to Holmes’s side.  He did not look well at all, his face pale and breathing ragged, though the doctor took comfort in the fact that his patient was breathing.

“Holmes,” Watson repeated again, hands already reaching to assess the damage.  Holmes’s face twitched but his eyes did not open and Watson quickly sawed away the ropes and began to open his shirt, searching for a wound.  There was blood on the shirt, but when he pulled it away he saw no gushing wound.  His chest was redder than it should be, the clear sign of what would soon be spectacular bruising, but nothing that had broken the skin.  There were no bullet holes.

Behind him, Lestrade busied himself with detaining the criminal, searching his unconscious form for hidden weapons.

“He’s not shot,” Watson mumbled, “Thank God, he’s not shot…but where is the blood…”

“Doctor,” Wiggins said, unexpectedly right at Watson’s elbow, “Doctor, your hand is bleeding something awful.”  And then Watson looked, and realized all at once that the blood on Holmes’s shirt and chest wasn’t his.  Watson’s thumb that had been cut earlier was still bleeding.

“Oh,” he said, staring at his wound, a wound he did not really feel and had completely forgotten about.  And Holmes opened his eyes.

“Watson,” he said, “You are bleeding.”  He stared at Watson’s thumb intently, a look of distress on his face though he made no move to sit up or get a closer look.

“So I am,” Watson answered, blinked, and then sprung into action grabbing a handkerchief out of his pocket to wrap his thumb in.  He tied it in place quickly, using his teeth in lieu of his right hand, and turned his full attention back on Holmes.

“Wiggins,” he said without looking up from his task, “Fetch me my bag.”

“Yessir, Doctor,” the boy answered sharply before darting off.  Holmes, finally, thought to try and sit up only to have Watson stop him with a stern look and a gentle push just above the bruises on his chest.  Gently, he began to inspect his ribs.

“Watson,” Holmes said, only marginally cooperative in that he made no more attempts to escape the doctor’s care, “I have solved the case of who killed Gladstone and the maid.”

“We have all solved the case,” Watson answered as he moved his hands down over Holmes’s torso, feeling for internal injuries to his organs, “The man lies unconscious now in the Inspector’s custody.”

“No, but…” Holmes answered, but had to break off as he suddenly fell into another coughing fit.  Watson winced in sympathy knowing that between the bruising on his chest and the cough, Holmes had to be in pain. 

“No, but I know who he is, and I know why,” Holmes said at last, after the fit seemed to be over.  Watson said nothing to that, except to ask where he felt pain.

“Head and torso,” Holmes answered promptly, “His name, you see, is L. Wolf; I know this because of what was inscribed in the…ow, Watson, no need to poke at it…”

“Uh huh,” Watson answered, his hands grazing over the lump on the side of Holmes’s head where it had earlier struck the table.

“In the snuff case,” Holmes finished.

“I can tell you more,” another voice said, just as Wiggins suddenly appeared with Watson’s bag, though it was not his voice that spoke.  Irene Adler had returned at some point, as had the Princess Gisela Louise Marie.  “I know him.  His name is Leander Wolf.  Rudolf was quite over fond of him.”

“The snuff case was the final clue,” Holmes continued, ignoring Irene completely while clutching earnestly at Watson’s sleeve before dissolving into another coughing fit.  Frowning, Watson measured out another dose of medicine to hopefully ease that cough.

“You know the truth of my brother’s death?”  Gisela Louise Marie asked, her eyes sliding towards the villain whom she also seemed to recognize.  Holmes turned his head to look at her, thwarting Watson’s attempt to get him to take the medicine, and then his eyes looked over the room, taking in everything.

“Our sitting room has grown very full,” he remarked, not his keenest observation ever though still accurate.  Leander Wolf was stirring at last from Watson’s blow and being seen to by two of Lestrade’s men while Lestrade hovered over Holmes.  Wiggins hovered as well, perched ready to jump into action with any need Watson or Holmes should suddenly require of him.  Irene was standing a bit too close as well, looming over Holmes’s supine form.  The princess did not hover or loom but was content to stand out of the way with her guardian and watch all the goings on.

“So it has,” Watson remarked, taking the opportunity when Holmes opened his mouth to make another comment to pour the medicine in.  Holmes glared as he swallowed it, though he was rewarded as Watson allowed him to sit up slowly at last.

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, after the silence had gone on a bit, “Perhaps you could share with us exactly what this man has been up to as regards to the case.  We have his lady friend…”

“Sister,” Holmes corrected.

“Sister, after a bit of a chase, and another accomplice, but the…boy…said it wasn’t the man we wanted, and we all felt a bit alarmed for you back at the house.  With reason I see.”

“And you need me to fill in the blanks,” Holmes answered smoothly, “Which I can…”

“No.”

Everyone turned to stare at Watson, who had spoken in a firm, commanding voice which stopped Holmes up short.

“Er, yes, Doctor, of course it can wait…” Lestrade said after a long moment of silence, and Holmes frowned.

“My dear fellow,” he said to Watson, “I am perfectly…”

“I thought you had been shot,” Watson announced abruptly, his tone allowing for no argument.  That tone, which often worked well on getting unruly patients to behave, rarely worked on Holmes.  For once, however, Watson’s words seemed to have shocked him into silence.

“My dear fellow…” Holmes began again, “I am but bruised.”

“You fell, and there was a dark stain upon your shirt, and then there was blood…from my thumb as it turned out…but you have been poisoned, suffered smoke inhalation, have developed a terrible lung condition, and been kicked and knocked around, all over the space of a few days.  So no.  Your great deduction can wait.  The blackguard and his friends are caught, there are solid charges of assault and murder already heaped upon their heads…the rest can wait.  You will go to the hospital…yes, you will, Holmes, I mean it.  And when you are well, then you can amaze us all with your powers of deduction.  Until then, you are my patient, and you will sit in silence and allow my medicine to work.”

This statement was met with a very deep silence, no one daring to say anything after Watson’s long tirade.  Even Holmes didn’t speak for at least a minute.  He didn’t even cough.

“The stain was mud,” he said suddenly into the stillness, “Mr. Wolf had stepped on my chest, and I saw the mud which told me he…”And then he was coughing again, and Watson sent him an I-told-you-so look while helping him to stay leaning up against his chest, trying to ease his pain.

“When I say don’t talk,” Watson whispered soothingly into his ear, “I mean don’t talk.”

“I am terribly sorry about this business,” Gisela said at last, “Should I call again in a few days?”  At her words, Holmes suddenly realized his client was still there and waiting upon the fulfillment of her case, and he made an attempt once more to speak.  Before he could, however, Watson was already answering that that would be a good idea and Lestrade was showing her out the door.  Holmes watched this, a suddenly puzzled expression marring his features.

“Where is Nanny?” he asked.  Watson stared at him, blinked, and then a look of horror suddenly crossed his face.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he exclaimed.  He jumped up and grabbed his bag, only pausing to give Wiggins the stern order to keep Holmes silent and still, and to fetch him if he worsens.  Between the boy and Adler’s careful watch, he was fairly certain Holmes was seen to.  Even so, only his duty as a doctor could have made him leave his side just then.

Mrs. Hudson was as he had last seen her, fast asleep crumpled in the closet.  A quick examination did not show her to be too badly off, and already she was beginning to stir.  Conscience assuaged, he sent one of Lestrade’s men out to see about transportation and returned to Holmes.

Wiggins had taken his duty very seriously, a fact which Holmes obviously resented if the glares he sent Watson’s way were anything to go by, but at least Holmes seemed no worse for wear.

Leander Wolf was taken away at last, only having barely regained consciousness, and then Holmes consented to be taken to be seen to, mostly as it turned out so he could inform the first doctor he saw of Watson’s thumb.

All in all, the day could have turned out much worse.  The criminal was caught and no one was dead.  Yet.


	15. Chapter 15

Some three weeks after the capture of Leander Wolf and his sister Barbel, Gisela Louise Marie, Princess Imperial and Archduchess of Austria, Princess of Hungary and Bohemia, Princess of Bavaria strode up to the door of quite an ordinary looking house on Baker Street.  She was let in at once by Mrs. Hudson and was pleased to see how well the house had recovered from her first visit.  If she hadn’t seen how it had been before, she never would have guessed there had been a fire at all.

Sherlock Holmes was not quite so recovered, but he had returned to his own rooms away from the hospital and Dr. Watson had finally sent her word that Holmes had recovered enough to see her.  As she approached the room, however, the noises she heard were not nearly so promising.

“You said you’d accept Dr. Reid’s opinion, Holmes, if we allowed it,” one voice scolded while another man coughed harshly, “Which means not smoking your pipe until you are well again.”

“Never mind, dear chap, our guest is here,” the man who was coughing managed to say, the fit apparently over for the moment.  Mrs. Hudson let Gisela inside.

Both men looked much better than they had; Holmes even stood at her arrival without any apparent difficulty though he was obviously still ill and gave a small bow.

“Countess Von Kramm.”

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.  I hope you are well.”

“Much better than I was,” Holmes answered, his voice rough and deep, and he motioned for her to take a seat.  She did and Mrs. Hudson arrived with a pot of tea which she guaranteed had been brewed by none other than herself and was sure to contain no poisons whatsoever.  Holmes started to reply to this when his companion accidently trod over his toe and in the end all that was said were polite words around their tea.

“Countess,” Holmes said after all the necessary pleasantries had been covered, “You wish to know the circumstances of your brother’s death, and what drove the Wolf siblings to murder.”

“I have been speculating on this matter for all these weeks,” Gisela agreed, “The only reason I can conclude is that Leander Wolf was one of those…indiscretions which my family worked hard to keep hidden.  He could not have been pleased when Rudolf took a mistress.”

“The very man depicted in the photograph with your brother and Miss Adler which Miss Adler later destroyed.  And I would say he was not pleased with Marie as he was the one who killed her.  Rudolf came upon the act and shot at him.  Your brother was a passionate man as I recall. In fact, he did hit him, I noted the way in which Wolf favored his arm…much as you do, Watson.”

“But how can you know this?  Surely that man has not spoken of his crimes!” Gisela exclaimed.

“He hasn’t, though Miss Barbel Wolf did admit to administering the poison.  She claims she did it at her brother’s instructions and had been told it was merely a sedative, meant to put us to sleep so our rooms could be searched.  She’s lying, of course.  She would not have been so careful that the rest of the household were spared, if that were the case.  Why she feels such loyalty to her brother, to kill for him, that I cannot say.  But as for the events at Mayerling Lodge…the wound to Mr. Wolf’s shoulder was easy enough, I observed it myself and later had it confirmed that he was shot at roughly the same time as your brother’s death.”

“But why do you think it is my brother who shot him?  Perhaps they were both set upon by assassins.”

“From his own words, I know that he wanted to preserve your brother’s name and reputation.  He claimed he feared that we had proof of your brothers…indiscretions and he came to destroy it.  The two men were certainly close, once.  Your brother gave me a snuffbox with a small engraving including the initials ‘L.W.’ and a wolf’s head.  A gift from Wolf.  Your brother gave it away, to me as it happens.”

“My brother loved passionately,” Gisela said, not shying away or blushing at what Holmes implied about her brother, “But he also loved often.  You believe Mr. Wolf killed Marie out of jealousy and was shot by my brother, though not killed.  Did he kill my brother then?”

“Certainly not.  He was badly wounded, perhaps he even seemed dead.  Marie was most certainly dead.  Your brother found himself surrounded by those he loved, dead because of him.  I am afraid that the note he then penned was quite genuine.”

“So he did kill himself,” Gisela said, her expression quite frozen.  Holmes said nothing.

“I am sorry,” Watson said in the ensuing silence, his expression compassionate.

“Wolf must have come to himself before anyone came upon them and fled.  It was a crime of passion and he must have been half dead as he escaped.  There were doubtless clues which would have led to him.  When your family recognized the truth, they sought to keep it hidden.  A man who killed himself with his mistress is a scandal.  A man who killed himself after his lover killed his mistress?  That could cause ruin.”

“It could.”  Gisela stared at the two men.

“We have promised our silence,” Watson said, “Not a word of this will be shared.”

“I can see that you are not men who would wish to tell stories about lovers,” she said.  The doctor looked confused for a moment before his eyes widened, but before he could speak on what she had said, Holmes continued his story.

“Wolf thought he had escaped detection.  I believe he truly did wish to keep Rudolf’s name untarnished.  And then one day he read an account about a King of Bohemia.  Like yourself, he recognized Rudolf at once.  And he recognized the photograph.  He feared, not only that the truth about that photo might still come out, not believing Watson’s report that it was destroyed in the end, but that if it was revealed then his part in your brother’s death and that of his mistress might come to light.”

“He sounds quite insane,” Gisela remarked.

“Yes.  But you can be assured of his silence as well; his desire to keep your brother’s name unsoiled seems to be genuine.  And if he does decide to share…it is the ranting of a madman facing the hangman’s noose.”

Then Holmes, who had appeared quite strong during the telling, suddenly broke down into a harsh coughing fit.  Watson saw Gisela out, promising again that they had left out many of the details when they had given their report to Lestrade.  At the door, Watson couldn’t quite stop himself from saying, “I am to be married, you know.”

“Yes,” Gisela agreed, smiling kindly, “and my brother was married.”  And before Watson could make any reply to that, she pressed a purse into his hand, ‘for your services’, and left.

“I see she is as generous as her brother,” Holmes said as Watson returned.  Holmes looked greatly improved for a man who had managed to sound deathly ill moments before.  Watson frowned at him.

“You did not have to give her quite so many details,” he said, “This was about the death of her brother.”

“She knew quite well what her brother was and would not have thanked me to give her the same edited version we gave Lestrade,” Holmes answered.  He was holding his pipe and twirling it thoughtfully.  Watson glared at the pipe but said nothing, not even to remind Holmes he had promised to rest.  Watson might have been his doctor but he wasn’t his keeper, no matter how much he thought Holmes needed one sometimes.

“I am resting,” Holmes said anyway, “So you can stop thinking so sternly at me.  It is not even lit.”  Watson made no comment to that but sat down with his journal.  Just because he did not intend to publish this case didn’t mean he didn’t want to jot down all the relevant facts.

“Holmes,” he said after he had taken his initial notes, “I do have one question.”

“Yes?”

“When did Rudolf give you the snuff case?  He didn’t…he wasn’t…”

“Yes?”

“…never mind.”  Watson continued to write.

“Watson?”  Holmes intruded upon the silence this time and Watson set his pen aside.  “What did happen to Gladstone?”

“He was buried, Holmes,” Watson answered, looking on Holmes with some concern.  Surely he did remember that the dog had died?

“Yes, of course…but where?”  Watson studied his friend.  Despite Holmes’s attempt at casual disinterest, there was something vulnerable about his posture. 

“In the garden, beneath the new rosebush.”

“Ah.  Yes.  Thank you.  I may have to see it…sometime.  I suppose we will be getting a new animal?”

“You might,” Watson agreed, cautiously, “It’s what people generally do.”  There was a longer moment of silence during which Holmes read an article to himself and Watson continued to write.  Something about the way Holmes was acting, however, entirely too innocent, was playing at Watson.

“Holmes, what are you reading?” he asked at last, trying to decide what it was.  Holmes should probably have been in bed, but that wasn’t quite it.  He was sitting quietly after all, and though he held his pipe in his mouth, it wasn’t lit.

“Oh…just something on decomposing.  An article I missed while I was…out.”

“Ah.”

There was another moment of silence. Then Watson frowned.  “Holmes, you are not digging up the dog for an experiment.”

“I never did get to say goodbye, as I was almost dying at the time,” Holmes remarked plaintively.

“You can speak to his graveside.”

“A rosebush, you mean.”

“You are not digging up Mrs. Hudson’s garden, Holmes.”

"Of course not."

Thus ends the case of the Mayerling Lodge Incident, otherwise known as the case of the dead dog.

The End


End file.
